A Welcome Wagon of One
by Gumi Reloaded
Summary: Saitoh receives a phone call from his friend and former police partner and goes to investigate why a man who was declared dead nearly a year before is alive and kicking. Okita, running on only a few fragmented memories with a pocketful of crayons and oranges, wreaks havoc and makes the ladies weak in the knees. Snipping, sniping and awkward male bonding occurs.
1. Chapter 1

**A Welcome Wagon of One **

A Gumi Reloaded Story

Written by Legalronin (Okita and other supporting characters)

and MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh and other supporting characters)

"It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces."

― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

**This thread takes place directly after Release to the Wild. If you want to read what happened before this thread with this duo, go to Release to the Wild.**

**Saitoh**

Down the stairs and through the dojo, Saitoh slid open the door to the small storage room in the basement and turned on the light. Not one for having anything that wasn't absolutely essential, there wasn't much in there, a couple of emergency supply kits in the event of a disaster and a few boxes.

Saitoh exhaled sharply and took one of the larger boxes down from the shelf. It wasn't marked with a name or a date or much of anything. It didn't need to be. Not this one. There were a few more items that belonged to Okita on the shelf but this was not the time or the place for their retrieval. Most of these items were heavy, and a handful were extremely sharp. The handguns he'd taken from his friend's home were locked in the gun safe.

Carefully Saitoh set the box down and opened it. He couldn't remember what he'd packed the night he went to his friend's apartment. Newly sober, he'd had the shakes from withdrawal so bad that his hands had barely been functional and his mind had not been in much better shape.

Saitoh quickly went through what little inventory remained of a missing man's life. Books, some personal mementos, three pairs of shoes consisting of a pair of sneakers, a pair of well-maintained oxfords, and a ridiculous pair of house slippers that the boys had given their uncle for his birthday. Okita had worn them ragged and Saitoh wondered what had possessed him to pack the damn things.

Saitoh put the sneakers to the side, and grabbed a pair of rolled up socks, briefs, a worn pair of jeans that he recalled his friend being fond of and a black button up shirt. These items of clothing he placed at the top of the box where they'd be easily accessed when he went to pick up his former partner. Saitoh looked for and found Okita's black leather jacket and added it to the stack of clothing. He wasn't sure if he should bring the storage box. This morning he wasn't sure about many things.

(Better to be prepared) Saitoh decided. It beat the hell out of ending up with your pants down around your ankles in an emergency.

He was about to close the box when he saw that there was a picture frame. Two of them in fact. Saitoh turned both. It was a photo of the boys with Okita, Tsuyoshi in the man's arms, Tsutomu hugging Okita's leg tightly. All three were wearing New Meiji Samurai baseball caps. All three were happy. Whole. The other frame held a childish drawing, one that Tsutomu had drawn when he was four, a picture of he and his uncle. Rendered in crayon, the figures were far from anatomically correct, but smiling and standing on what Saitoh guessed was grass. Drawings of small children were difficult to discern, though the emotions that compelled their creation were not.

(How will Tsutomu handle this?) Already struggling, his eldest boy had loved Okita, worshiped the ground the smaller man stood on. Okita had been there, for Tsutomu and the rest of his family, when Saitoh had not been in a state to do much of anything for anyone. Tsutomu was sorting out memories from the past, would shortly have a new mother and now a man the boy loved better than his father, a stable, reliable uncle he'd heard his boy weeping over for months after his disappearance, had returned, seemingly from the dead.

(Triage, you moron.) Maudlin thoughts had no place in the mission he was on.

Saitoh set both frames down carefully into the box, nestling them in a bathrobe he'd packed so they wouldn't get damaged on the drive to the rehab center. He closed the lid to the storage box and picked it up. Till in tumult, his mind balked at the idea of his friend being in such a place. Remembering what Watanabe had reminded him of, he set those concerns and questions aside. For now.

Sliding the storage room door shut with his elbow, Saitoh quickly carried the box upstairs, slipped on his shoes at the threshold of his home and deposited the storage box in the trunk of the car. His choice of vehicle had also given him pause. Initially, he'd planned to take a squad car in the event that he needed extra firepower and to send a message to whoever had his friend that he meant business. He'd changed his mind while driving home from the police station though, deciding that a measure of discretion was warranted in case Okita was in trouble and a clear police presence would put him at risk. He didn't however change out of his uniform.

He was on duty, after all.

Now that the requested clothes had been secured, it was time for food. Food meant Bakufu Burgers since it was morning and they made their artery clogging fare 24/7. Okita had snarfed down fries and burgers here with abandon more times than anyone could count. Saitoh ordered, remembering what his friend had been fond of. He added an extra burger as well and two cans of Coke just in case and then he was off again, driving towards the foothills of the city.

No longer rush hour, traffic was light and he made good time. Saitoh pulled into the rehab center parking lot. The second he stepped out of his car, he was assailed by the metal tinged air that made his eyes and throat burn, despite the breathing filter he was wearing. He coughed harshly, then took the topmost pile of clothing from the storage box along with a spare breathing mask and put it in a bag he'd brought with him, then took the fairly bulging sack from the burger joint and walked inside.

(What a dump)

Saitoh looked around the building, not impressed. It was a neglected place of healing. Most government sponsored rehab centers were. Luxury was only to be found in centers that only the wealthy could afford. Decorated in a sea of drab beige, the center was old, worn and very tired looking. There was the faint scent of antiseptic cleaner and a very strong sense of sickness and suffering.

"Good morning may I….er…" The man greeting Saitoh started, stopped and then started back up again once he found his tongue. Visitors came to the rehab center rarely. The front lobby registrar looked up at a tall police officer. "…ah…Officer?"

Two bags in hand, one being food, the policeman strode over to the desk, set both bags on it and then gave the registrar his full and complete attention, his expression severe. The register wished he wouldn't have done that.

"How may I help you?"

"Okita Soiji," Saitoh said curtly, "I'm here to pick him up."

"I see." The registrar blinked. Ah yes. Okita-san. For the longest time the roguish patient had been called Yamada-san. How strange. Patients, dangerous ones, despite their friendly laughs and banter, were rarely released on their own recognizance. He glanced up at the glowering police officer and wisely decided not to share those thoughts with the man.

"Yes, of course. He'll be here in a moment," the registrar motioned towards some soft brown couches in the lobby, punctuated by some bedraggled real ferns, a couple of fake white orchids and some rather innocuous art work on the walls.

"Please have a seat…ahh…what is your name, please?"

"Saitoh," more curtness ensued, "and I'll stand".

"Right," the registrar said and picked up his phone.

**Yamamoto**

"A police officer is here to pick up Okita-san?" Yamamoto blinked, and waited as the man on the other line made a noise of agreement. He cleared his throat, and straightened up, "Hm. Well, offer him some tea and I'll be out in a minute."

Imagine that, Okita called someone in the police. Just add that to the mystery that was Okita. Actually it was oddly fitting for the man to leave in a blaze of mystery seeing as how he had arrived in a similar fashion.

Yamamoto remembered the day. After all it wasn't everyday that you came into work to find one of the empty rooms suddenly occupied, one of their more secure rooms too. Okita had arrived without a name, history, or so much as a hint of where he had been. He just appeared. Okita had been more corpse than man, bruised and battered, but clean. Despite his appearance he had been well cared for, his injuries that is. For a while they weren't even sure he would survive, but his wounds had healed quickly. Very quickly.

He had been at the center for weeks when he had finally regained consciousness. Yamamoto's lips twitched up into a smile, he remembered the day. One of the nurses had screamed bloody murder. She had been in changing Okita's IV bags when a rough and raspy voiced had softly asked if she would scratch his nose.

The poor woman had thought it had come from a dead man. That had been it. There had been no screaming or demanding of answers, just silence. Yamamoto wasn't sure he would even have called it acceptance, but more absorption.

The man was certainly full of surprises. He sighed, he supposed he should get Kinoshita and go out and talk to this officer.

They had never had a patient leave the center, at least not since he had started working there, and that had been six years ago. So the procedure was a little unfamiliar, but it would be a good idea to prepare this Saitoh however he could.

**Kinoshita **

Kinoshita pushed his glasses up, and ripped Okita's file from the nurse, blowing air and whatnot out his nose as he did so, "Hmph! I hope that man is here to arrest Yamada-san, prison is really where he deserves to go."

Yamamoto controlled the urge to roll his eyes, "Apparently Okita-san called him."

"Yamamoto-san," Kinoshita said, with slow affectation. "Remember, he's an addict. Who knows if he even knows who he called." Then snapping his fingers, "Yamada-san may have prank called the police for all we know!"

"I doubt that's what happened sir."

Kinoshita shook his head, "You all give him far too much credit. How could he have called him? He didn't even know his own name!"

Yamamoto didn't point out that it was now Kinoshita that refused to remember Okita's actual name. "Stranger things have happened."

"That may be true." Kinoshita smacked his lips, "Well, I can at least entertain this Officer of the law and prepare him, and if Yamada-san ends up in prison . . . " He couldn't quite hide the grin. "It won't be my fault. I still say he's not ready to leave."

Yamamoto marveled that Kinoshita had managed to keep his job for so long. Then again, it wasn't like it was a job that was in high demand. Kinoshita had always been kind of a sleeze but it hadn't really been showcased until Okita had arrived. "I do agree that this Saitoh-san should be informed."

Kinoshita nodded enthusiastically, "Yes! Yes! Where is the demon, I mean addict, right now?"

You don't even try to hide it do you? Yamamoto thought. "He's in the showers, I believe, and then he too will have a briefing about life in the outside world. Normally a counselor would, but we are understaffed."

Kinoshita wasn't listening; he was too busy imagining a center without the troublemaker. Of course he was against the man leaving, but it would also be nice to not arrive to work to find your entire office, in perfect replica, outside . . . drenched from the night's rain. (That the security cameras had somehow failed to pick up, that's what happens when you cut corners on costs) Or to find a colony of ants behind his "Treating Patients with Respect and Care." Or the ravens that had somehow started to nest in his desk. That one had been particularly annoying. Who knew ravens were so vicious?

No, it might not be so bad to get rid of the biggest pest. Still . . . why should Yamada get special treatment? No, jail is where he belonged.

Kinoshita was so caught up that he barely realized they were in the lobby, and that the tall officer did not look at all impressed. He cleared his throat and bowed low, "Good morning! Please have a seat!"

Then turning to send the man behind the desk a nasty and meaningful look, "Tea?" Completely ignoring the cup of coffee already before the officer.

**Saitoh**

Saitoh smelled the doctor before he saw him.

Cologne, sharp and undeniably cheap wafted down the hall and into the lobby, not unlike the aerosolized chemical agents used in the war. While not as lethal, it stank worse, which was saying something.

A man, short and thin and sporting one of the more epic comb-overs that Saitoh had run across wandered into the lobby, expression dazed as if the noxious smelling twit had something on his mind. He was wearing glasses, highly polished and perched on his beak-like nose. As some doctors were wont to do, the man wore a coat with this name on it and his title right below said name. The fact that name and title of the fellow was in bright red and twice as large as it needed to be spoke volumes.

So did the fact that the man had eight different colors of pens sticking out of his lapel pocket. Saitoh's eyes narrowed and wondered if the weaselly looking physician was overly fond of staplers and time stamps.

Someone was overcompensating.

A second man came into the lobby. This one was more sensibly dressed, wearing scrubs and unlike his colleague, had a good measure of muscle on him. He was stocky, the type of man that was naturally strong and seemed comfortable in his own skin. He looked at Saitoh, then nodded, a gesture that Saitoh returned.

Dr. Overcompensation cleared his throat loudly as if he was in a large room filled to the brim rather than a pathetic little lobby with three men and a rather harried receptionist. He bowed, far lower than he should have, sending the valiantly but inevitably doomed combover flapping against his forehead like a handful of spindly brown curtain blinds.

"Good Morning! Please have a seat!"

There was no missing the tone and expression that the doctor gave the receptionist. Saitoh frowned. A good leader, one that was worthy of respect, would never expose a subordinate to negative public scrutiny. If a subordinate needed his ass handed to him it was done in private and done thoroughly. The fact that the receptionist had already brought Saitoh a cup of coffee, weak and watered down as it was, only cemented his opinions of the doctor.

He gave a perfunctory bow, and made the normal rather curt introductions, common to those who were not fond of beating around the bush.

"Tea is not necessary, and I prefer to stand," Saitoh refused to sit on a poofy, beige over-sized couch with a couple of very suspect stains in strategically disturbing locations. There were pillows on it for crying out loud. He hated pillows of the non-essential variety, especially when they were crocheted with meaningless snivel.

Saitoh quirked up an eyebrow as the doctor began to respond and resigned himself to putting on a pair of hip waders as it was clear that sloshing through a bunch of bullshit was going to be necessary. He needed answers regarding Okita's medical history and current condition, which, if the bulging file folder was any indication, was extensive.

**Yamamoto**

Yamamoto watched as Kinoshita stood a little straighter and attempted to adjust his comb over, he almost wanted to laugh. The man liked to wield about his own authority, but he also loved kissing ass. Specifically those that seemed to demand it, and apparently this police officer was one of those.

However instead of taking charge, Kinoshita snapped his fingers at the nurse, a clear indication that he was to perform the preliminaries. In all honesty, it was better this way. So he began, "I don't know what Okita-san –"

Kinoshita cleared his throat and clarified, "The addict."

Yamamoto didn't even acknowledge the interruption he just continued on, " - told you but he will be set up in an independent living home. It's not much, but it is located near a clinic. It will have everything he needs as far as toilet paper and so on. Okita-san will need to find a job - "

Kinoshita snorted, "Good luck with that. Who hires addicts?"

"- and check in with a counselor and the doctor. Both will be located at the clinic within walking distance."

"Hmph, it's a waste of money and personnel," Kinoshita quipped.

Yamamoto plowed on, silently wondering at Kinoshita's nerve at insulting a man to his friend. "Okita-san is experiencing memory loss. While it is not clear what he remembers, or how he will handle being – "

Kinoshita tired of letting Yamamoto explain things, held up a hand to quiet him, besides he was the expert in these matters. "I am sure you know, but all addicts are vicious, violent, and completely unpredictable. Yamada-san is especially dangerous."

" . . . While most addicts are dangerous Okita-san has never been violent." Anyone else would have sighed, but Yamamoto simply carried on in his usual calm way.

Kinoshita, however, quickly went on the defensive and whirled around to face the bigger man. "Excuse me?! He attacked me!"

"He coughed in your face. That's hardly violence." Yamamoto could see that the police officer was quickly losing patience. That is if the man even had patience.

"It was an attack!" Kinoshita snapped out getting more and more irritated because Yamamoto refused to look at him.

"You rounded the corner just as he coughed," Yamamoto explained.

"He's a murderer!"

As ever, Yamamoto remained unfazed. "With patients that have lost their memory it is a good idea to get them back into their routine and surround them with things that are familiar and see what resurfaces."

Kinoshita glared at the nurse. He was purposely changing the topic, however he had an image to protect and now was not the time. So he pulled down on his lab coat and said, in a forced calm and professional voice, "They may become violent."

Yamamoto with some uncertainty said, "He has never shown signs of violence."

"He is a delinquent."

"He does like to . . . have fun," Yamamoto actually smiled in fond memory. The center was definitely not going to be the same without Okita.

"He is a menace to the employees," Kinoshita continued. Why didn't everyone else see what a dangerous man Yamada was?

Yamamoto actually grinned, "Well . . . he is very popular with the nurses, but he is hardly a menace. "

Kinoshita looked up at the tall officer, was he a Major? Had he read the insignia correctly? He wasn't sure, but he tried to convince the man of the dangers of this particular addict. "He is a thief."

Yamamoto laughed openly now, "Okita-san somehow managed to convince every patient to give him their oranges, but he did not steal them."

Kinoshita growled and opened up Okita's file, "It says here that the patient has evidence of heavy use. Nothing you say changes the fact that he is an addict. A heavy addict."

Yamamoto said nothing, because what could he say? The scars on Okita's arms alone showed that he was an addict, but he had never really behaved like an addict. So he kept quiet giving the officer time to think. Or better said, to control his emotions because maybe it was his imagination but the man looked utterly pissed.

**Saitoh**

Joint questioning, a psychological tactic that while antiquated, when done correctly was an effective form of interrogation, negotiation and other competitive contexts. Saitoh was quite familiar with the mechanics of the tactic and had used it with his partner many times over the years. Call it what you wanted, whether "Good Cop/Bad Cop", "Mutt and Jeff" or simply screwing with a suspect's mind until the necessary degree of destabilization occurred. The results were usually the same.

Briefly (very, very briefly in this case) Saitoh had wondered if the psychiatrist had been trying to use this ploy. The nitwit masquerading as a psychiatrist was irritating enough to drive anyone crazy, a perfect foil, and his colleague appeared to be reasonable and far better informed than his superior.

He'd dealt with psychiatrists before, usually in the middle of court proceedings, and was as familiar as any cop with the games they liked to play and generally speaking, held the same opinion of head shrinks that he did of lawyers, one exception specifically coming to mind. All too often, rather than presenting critical, unbiased information to a case, psychiatrists were leveraged as tools, either for the prosecutor or the defense counsel.

Some evidence was incontrovertible. The human mind and all the nuances that made it operate properly or malfunction was not this sort of evidence, unless you were dealing with a suspect who had Stage III Drug-Resistant Syphilis and whose brain resembled swiss cheese. There was far too much subjectivity to suit Saitoh's sense of justice and far too much leeway given to medical professionals that had proven time and time again, to be anything but.

"Excuse me? He attacked me!"

"He coughed in your face. That's hardly violence."

"It was an attack!"

"You rounded the corner just as he coughed."

Saitoh folded his arms, his eyes narrowing with absolute distaste as he listened. This was no ham-handed attempt at psychological manipulation. A muscle in his jaw twitched. This was professional incompetence of the highest magnitude, one perpetrated by a buffoon that Saitoh doubted could wipe his own ass without considerable assistance.

_He is a thief_.

Saitoh bit down hard, the enamel of his molars grinding painfully as he forced violent images and equally violent urges regarding said buffoon down. Okita was many things, but a thief wasn't one of them, and no matter what had befallen him before or after he'd ended up in this looney bin, never would be. While the desire to make this very personal and painful was sharp, so were the consequences of losing his temper.

On duty and in uniform, he represented the government he'd sworn to serve and was duty bound to uphold the laws, flawed as some might be, that held the tenuous social contract between the governed and those in power together.

There was a police report regarding Okita and his disappearance nearly a year ago. Saitoh still had the case number memorized. It was a report he had created and worked hard on along with many other men and women in the divisions where he and Okita had served as captains. While the investigation had eventually stalled for lack of leads and progress, it was still an open file and therefore a matter for the New Meiji Police Department rather than a personal matter between a moron who needed his ass kicked up around his ears and an ill tempered son of a bitch who had the means and motive to do so.

There had been a time, a lifetime ago, when he'd worn a different uniform of sky blue and white, a uniform that had granted him as well as other members of the military group he'd been in, the right to deal with morons efficiently, usually via decapitation. Those were simpler times, when justice was dispensed far more easily. Okita had worn the same colors and had, without exception carried out his responsibilities to the letter.

Unfortunately, the centuries old modus operandi of slaying evil (in this case gross incompetence) instantly was not was on the table.

Pity.

**Kinoshita's head would have looked good on a pike. **

It says here that the patient has evidence of heavy use. Nothing you can say changes the fact that he is an addict. A heavy addict."

"The medical file," Saitoh walked over to where the psychologist was ruffling through pages and pages of what appeared to be clinical notes. They were color coded, with tabs this way and that and much of the text was highlighted as if the writer had needed to reinforce what had been written many times over. The file, like the turd holding it, reeked of overcompensation and was overflowing with ego. "I'd like to see it."

"What? What do you mean you want to see it?" The psychiatrist sputtered, clutching his file folder to his chest like a mother might a child. "I'm more than capable of explaining the contents of my notes to you, Officer!"

"You seem quite confident in your documentation," Saitoh said, his deep voice almost approximating a measure of civility and casual conversation.

"Of course I am," Kinoshita spat in outrage, specks of saliva flying everywhere, including the officer's cheek. "Unlike some people," the psychiatrist gave a nasty side eye to his colleague, "I am fully aware and have painstakingly documented each and every offense committed by that addict, the only one in fact to do so! Yamada-san is a danger to himself, this clinic and the community at large! I don't know why I'm the only one who is aware of this fact!"

Saitoh tilted his head, as if he was actually listening to the ramblings of the idiot. He had to be careful now.

"You are confident in the quality of your documentation and have no doubts as to the accuracy or insights of your analysis?"

(Trap Baited)

The irate psychiatrist nodded, hard enough that the comb-over flopped back into his eyes.

"Yet you are unwilling to let anyone else look at all the work and effort you went through, at great personal risk I'm sure, to document the behavior of a man, an addict, that you believe to be so dangerous. Why is that, Kinoshita-sensei?"

Saitoh took another step forward and leaned down a little so he could look at the psychiatrist squarely. "Could it be that you're afraid that your evidence won't hold up? That you've made a mistake? Missed something critical?"

(Trap Set)

He looked at the man doubtfully, letting scorn drip into his question, "It is possible that this addict has managed to outsmart a man such as yourself?"

Kinoshita's nostrils flared wildly.

Saitoh smiled nastily. The trap had just gone off.

"Here! See for yourself!" Fuming and flustered, the psychiatrist shoved the overflowing folder at the officer (who had rudely stepped into his personal bubble, thank you very much), "Everything is there, even an idiot could understand it!"

Saitoh's much larger hand clamped down on the file, viselike.

"Thank you, Kinoshita-sensei," he said neatly, as if severing an artery in the neck of weaker prey, "I'm sure that your documentation will prove most enlightening."

Evidence secured (evidence that had been willingly given rather than forced and was therefore admissible into any legal proceeding). Saitoh turned around and walked back to the receptionist's table, quickly perusing through the overstuffed file.

(Crap. Crap. More Crap.)

Saitoh took out a picture and looked at it, scowling. (What the hell are ravens doing on the man's desk?)

He snorted and continued on going through the file, his experienced eyes looking and finding very little of worth.

(There!)

Saitoh pulled out a set of clipped together pages that had been spat out by a computer, one that specialized in identifying and measuring the amount and type of chemicals found in a human body. He looked it over. Once. Twice.

His scowl deepened.

He turned to the nurse. "Explain this toxicology report."

**Yamamoto**

Yamamoto watched as Kinoshita handed over confidential records to the officer. The man really . . . there was no word for him. There was protocol and procedure and laws, but Kinoshita liked to pick and choose the ones he abided by.

He was lost in this train of thought when Saitou turned to him with sheets of paper. Yamamoto blinked and reached out to take the papers. It was a toxicology report done when Okita had first arrived, back when they hadn't even known his name.

**Name: **Unknown

**MALE**

**Age: **Unknown but possibly in his thirties

**Status – **LIVING

**Blood type: **O

**Toxicology Results: NEGATIVE: META-AMPHETAMINE, KETONIC STASIS TYPE – E "METAL", META-AMPHETAMINE, TYPE – B "AMP", NO TRACE RESIDUE OF META-AMPHETAMINES FOUND IN BLOOD, SKIN or FOLLICLE SAMPLES NEGATIVE: OPIATES, NATURAL OR SYNTHETIC NEGATIVE: NEUROCOCAINE NEGATIVE: ALCOHOL /BAC (% by vol.) 0.00**

Yamamoto remembered that they had done the report twice because it hadn't quite added up. Even now, it made even less sense. According to the report there was no way Okita was an addict, and in fact . . . he didn't behave like an addict.

Kinoshita grabbed Yamamoto's arm and pulled it down to take a look at the paper, obviously annoyed at not being asked. He quickly smiled, "It's obviously, hard evidence that Yamada-san is an addict."

Yamamoto, however, shook his head suddenly a little uneasy this was not the place to discuss things, "I am not sure what to say."

Kinoshita snorted, and mockingly said, "You don't know what to say? It's right there in front of you."

"Okita-san's tests always came back clear, but . . ."

"WHAT!" Kinoshita had never really looked at the reports in Okita's file. He had assumed that it would have been positive. "That's impossible! He is an addict."

Yamamoto nodded. "Saitou-san perhaps we could take a seat? The break room has some very good coffee." Yamamoto was tired, he had had a long shift and had not sat down all morning. He wouldn't mind the break, and he didn't blame the man for wanting to avoid the couches, especially Kinoshita's crochet pillows.

Kinoshita, scowled, "That's hardly appropriate. We should head to my office."

**Okita**

\- Meanwhile -

Okita inspected his face in the mirror. It was the first time he had really seen himself since . . . well, he didn't know when. Since he had regained consciousness he had refused to let them shave or cut his hair, too afraid of not recognizing the face in the mirror.

But now without the facial hair, he suddenly looked younger, fresher, but there were purple bags under his eyes and his cheekbones were a little too visible. There was even the faintest scratch along his neck that he hadn't noticed before. Okita ran his hands through his hair, it was still long, to his shoulders, but Shiori had done her best to trim it not daring to do anything more. As she said herself, she was a nurse and not a hairdresser.

"What do you think?" Shiori asked from where she was cleaning up. Peeking up at the man.

"You tell me." Okita turned away from the mirror, reached down and picked up the clean shirt she had given him and pulled it on. Shirt now on, Okita threw Shiori his best smile and began a series of poses.

The young woman laughed, at least she didn't blush. The man was an expert at getting her to blush. "Very handsome. You look like a model!"

Okita too laughed, and crossed his arms, tilting his head back a bit as he thought out loud, "Maybe that's exactly who I was, a model." Then with a sly grin he looked at Shiori, "A model of good health and sanity."

Shiori picked up the towel Okita had left on the bench and smacked him with it, "You can appear on our brochures. You are our first success story." Then suddenly becoming very serious, she came to stand in front of Okita, surprising the taller man by taking hold of his shirt and pulling him down, "You are a success, do you hear me? I don't want to see you here again."

Okita blinked, surprised by her stern tone but even more taken aback by the slight sheen in Shiori's eyes, tears. Okita smiled, and let his head rest on Shiori's for just a split second, and he felt her shock as her hands loosened a little on his shirt, but in the next instant he quickly grasped a hand and spun her out. She gasped in surprise.

Okita laughed, and brought her back in, "Shiori-san you worry too much."

Shiori was bright red as she found her back to the man's chest, and her hands in his. He smiled down at her, asking if it was okay. Her breath caught in her throat, and she didn't move away. She simply nodded.

Okita laughed, he could feel Shiori's pulse and hear how quick her heart was beating, poor woman. He quickly adjusted their stance so that they were ready to waltz. Then in a whisper he said her name, before bringing his voice to a normal volume, "Don't you understand?"

Shiori looked up at the man a little dazed, "What?"

Okita's grinned, "I want to break free."

Shiori blinked, and then laughed as she was swept around the room, while Okita sang the words he knew and hummed those he didn't.

"I want to break free

I want to break free

I want to break free from your lies

You're so self satisfied I don't need you

I've got to break free

God knows, God knows I want to break free . . ." ***

***Song by Queen

**Saitoh**

MEANWHILE, IN THE BREAK ROOM

"Yamamoto-san," Saitoh looked over at the nurse sitting across the table from him. Despite where he was working and who he was unfortunate enough to have to work with, the stocky man knew his duty and was trying to assist with the investigation. Saitoh respected that. "After reviewing what little paperwork this facility has on the patient, and in light of the fact that the patient has never tested positive for any type of illicit substance, how was the substance abuse diagnosis made? Is there anything else that you can tell me?"

"This is highly inappropriate!" Kinoshita sniffed, for the third time in 30 minutes. Bereft of his medical file, his pride bristling at the idea that an officer of the law preferred to speak with a subordinate rather than himself (as if Yamamoto knew anything of import), his mood had become downright sour.

Saitoh set his cup of coffee down. Yamamoto had been right, the breakroom coffee here was good, unlike the watered-down swill they offered in the lobby. He and the nurse had been going over what little useful documentation existed in Okita's medical file and for the most part, the moron masquerading as a psychiatrist had been content to quietly bitch and moan about the loss of his previous medical file.

What they had found, or rather what they'd been unable to find was appalling.

Yamamoto's expression had grown grim. Saitoh's face, which had been on the grimmer side of the facial expression spectrum since he'd been two, was no better.

"Kinoshita-san (the sensei bit was right out), how is it possible for there to be no intake paperwork for a patient that has been in the care of this facility for nearly six months?" There were no admit notes describing Okita's state when he'd been brought into the hospital. Hell, there wasn't even an actual admit date, just a benign and far too vague series of notes that appeared, indicating that the patient, name unknown, was still in a semi-comatose state with serious wounds that had rapidly healed while the scarring along the lines of the median cubital veins in both arms remained constant.

"I don't know what you're talking about." More sniffling and sniping ensued, "This rehabilitation facility has provided the addict, Yamada-san, exceptional care, especially considering what a difficult and dangerous patient he has proven to be."

"Every mandated medical protocol has been bypassed, violated or completely ignored," Saitoh growled, what little patience he had left was nearly gone like a badly needed cigarette. "No DNA scans were initiated, no efforts had been made to find next of kin, no inquest had been made to law enforcement to inquire as to whether a missing persons report was on file. How do you account for this lapse?"

(Had these negligent asshats followed any aspect of normal protocol, Okita would have been found months ago and received proper care.) The thought was a galling, infuriating one. Speaking of care, the receptionist had taken the clothing and food that he'd brought, promising to give them to his partner while he was being prepped for discharge. Saitoh wondered how much longer things would take. Yamamoto was doing his best to answer questions, but the psychiatrist who'd been assigned to oversee much of Okita's care, was hemming and hawing like a jackass.

"Those questions, Saitoh-san, need to be taken up with the facility administrators, all of which are terribly busy this morning," Kinoshita said primly as he decided to give the impertinent officer a taste of his own medicine. His fingers inched towards the medical file. "We do have protocols to follow at this facility, after all."

"I see." Saitoh shook his head in disgust, moved the medical file out of the imbecile's reach and then took the tablet that he'd been using to scan and document what little information was available and opened up a secure MSG portal to Watanabe.

**TXT MSG: ENCRYPTED**

**START MSG:** HSAITOH to KWATANABE; CAPT SQD3

AT INPATIENT FACILY. CONFIRMED OKITA PRESENT. COMPLETE CLUSTER.

SEE ATTACHED MED RECORDS. TAKE NOTE OF TOX PANEL.

FULL DISCOVERY SUBPOENA REQ. REFERENCE MISSING PERSONS CASE FILE #OSM1SS-06012060-WTH IN REQUEST. ADMIN COLLUSION LIKELY. INCOMPETENCE VERIFIED.

STANDBY FOR MORE DETAILS.

**END TXT MSG:**

He hit send with the merciless finality of a judge passing sentence on an unrepentant criminal. He'd been stonewalled before by various administrators in the line of his duty and in every case, they'd ended up regretting it.

"What…what are you doing?" Kinoshita leaned forward, glasses reflecting the bright LED's in the break room.

"Following protocol," Saitoh bit out, completely done dealing with the birdwit. He contented himself with the knowledge that the man's career was finished. Too many ethics and procedural violations had occurred. He'd see to it.

**Yamamoto**

Yamamoto bit the inside of his cheek, horrified. How had they not noticed? Okita wasn't some homeless addict with nobody . . . he had, scratch that, he was someone. He could see that.

Okita had slipped through the cracks of an institution that was horribly understaffed and with an influx of patients that needed so much care . . . Excuses. That's all he could offer Saitou-san, excuses. He picked up his mug of coffee, and mentally cursed everything.

One thing was for sure, he would not be giving Saitoh excuses, but still something did not make sense. How had it happened? Okita wasn't the kind of patient that just disappeared.

He turned to Kinoshita; after all he had been at the center, one of the few at the center not to have called in sick due to the flu, when Okita had arrived. "Kinoshita-sensei, what happened the day Okita arrived?"

Kinoshita turned to the nurse and fixed him with a disdainful look, pushing up his glasses. "Now now," he particularly snarled, "You know I just told Saitoh-san that those are questions for the administrators."

"Kinoshita-sensei . . . I am sure you can understand the severity of the situation." Yamamoto wanted to sigh, and back away as far as he could from the man before Saitoh not only threw his coffee at the man but lunged across the table and strangled him. All of which he would have thoroughly enjoyed.

Kinoshita sniffed, and then stuck his nose in the air. "I think I need to get back to work." He made an attempt at seizing his precious file, Saitoh casually placed his elbow on the file and quirked an eyebrow as Kinoshita attempted to pull on it with both hands.

Kinoshita was sweating from effort and embarrassment; the other man wasn't even really trying.

"Is there a problem Kinoshita-san?," Saitoh practically snarled. He was torn between keeping the man there or happily applying his foot to his ass and seeing him out.

Kinoshita leaned so far back in his attempt that the chair slipped out from under him, and he fell backwards. "Oi!"

Yamamoto, looked down at the man, "Are you alright?" He was trying not laugh, and he only managed it because they were in so much shit right now.

Saitoh and Yamamoto watched the man scramble out of the room, neither of them really sorry to see him go.

Yamamoto took a moment to get up and refill their mugs. "Okita-san just appeared one day. We were told that he had received all the medical attention he needed and the rest was up to him." He frowned. "You should know that he's not . . . normal. I don't know what but there's something . . . different about him."

Yamamoto had been around enough addicts to recognize the signs.

"He was unconscious for weeks, but he was on his feet within a day after gaining consciousness. I mean, he looked starved."

A random thought popped into his head, and he turned to face the officer. "Saitoh-san are you married? If so, I'd keep him away from your wife." He smiled down at his cup, "Was he always a flirt?"

**Okita**

-In the bathroom-

Okita stood with a foot on either side of the porcelain hole. He couldn't believe what he had just seen. He had "borrowed" Shiori's phone while they had been dancing, and snuck off to the bathroom to finish watching the press conference. And what he saw . . . confused and angered him.

Things that should never have happened had happened; officers shooting an unarmed woman, using drugs, turning on one another. Then that other man . . . WHAT THE FUCK, who moved like that?

This was the current state of New Meiji. That much had been made clear.

Okita's eyebrows knitted together, and this is what he was? Is this what he was capable of? He snorted and this is what they promoted Saitoh to. . . someone did not have his friend's best interest at heart. He rubbed his face, and here he was entangling his friend in his own problems. He hit the replay button on Shiori's phone not sure what he was hoping for.

He didn't get very far into the video when he heard footsteps. Okita quickly pocketed the phone in his robe, and with his foot began flushing the toilet.

Someone walked into the bathroom and made straight for the stall that Okita was using. Rattling the door.

Okita brought his elbow up to his mouth, puffed up his cheeks, and blew into the crook of his arm. He groaned, and said, "I am busy in here!" Flush.

Yamaguchi paused for a moment before he began banging on the door anew. "Hurry up!"

Okita rolled his eyes, and made more sound effects, "Use one of the other toilets!"

" . . . No." Yamaguchi banged on the door, "The seats are cold!"

"Damn it!" Okita swore, flushing the toilet again, "I can't wait to take a dump in private." Of course Yamaguchi would want to use the one toilet no one uses, the squatty potty.

"HURRY UP!"

"Use another bathroom!" Okita whined. More sound effects and flushing, hoping that the other man would give up.

Suddenly the banging stopped, and Okita heard Yamaguchi's heartbeat calm down.

"Hey. . . "

"Yea?" Okita asked, no longer flushing.

"Can I have your hamburgers?"

Flush. "What burgers?"

". . . Someone brought you burgers," Yamaguchi drawled out. "Can I have them?"

Okita slammed the door open, and stared at the other man in the eyes, "Why didn't you start with that?"

Yamaguchi blinked from bloodshot eyes, "So, can I?"

Okita shoved the man aside, "No."

"Why do you get to leave?" Yamaguchi followed behind Okita, whining, and obviously forgetting his urgency.

If only I knew, Okita thought as he went out to search for his food and then the nurse for his out-processing. As soon as he went out into the lobby he smelled two things that immediately eased away some of the tension, the smell of cigarettes and burgers. His welcome wagon was here.

"Hamburger?"

Okita's usually friendly eyes narrowed, and he turned to the other man, "Yamaguchi-san . . ."

The other man flinched at Okita's tone of voice, and then blinked in confusion as Okita said, "You can have my onions and pickles."

**Two Wolves of New Meiji have reunited. This is a long story, folks, so buckle up!**

Also, while you are reading, please take a moment and leave us a review? We love writing and appreciate the feedback!

As always - thanks for stopping by!

MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh)

Legalronin (Okita)


	2. Chapter 2

**A Welcome Wagon of One - Chapter 2 **

A Gumi Reloaded Story

Written by Legalronin (Okita and other supporting characters)

and MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh and other supporting characters)

"It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces."

― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

**This thread takes place directly after Release to the Wild. If you want to read what happened before this thread with this duo, go to Release to the Wild.**

**Saitoh**

MEANWHILE…BACK IN THE BREAK ROOM

Saitoh watched, his amber eyes narrow, menacing slits as the psychiatrist scrambled out of the breakroom, his tail tucked beneath his spindly legs like a frightened dog.

Calling the twit a moron was an insult to morons the world over. Saitoh was an expert on morons. He dealt with them all the time.

Okita-san just appeared one day. We were told that he had received all the medical attention he needed and the rest was up to him."

"Yet another critical item missing from the medial file," Saitoh's deep voice sounded like pissed off gravel, "what a surprise." He curtly asked the nurse for the names of the facility administrators and then cross referenced the proffered names against the basic intel Karen had sent to him based on public records.

There was only one match.

Satioh made note of this and quickly sent an update with the new administrative details. A subpoena was being requested and it was essential that its scope wasn't limited due to inaccurate and in this case, misleading information. The whole situation stank of deeply ingrained corruption masquerading as medical incompetence and once Okita was out of harm's way (because the man had been harmed, dammit) Saitoh and other members of the DOJ would come down like a tsunami on this shithole, demanding answers.

(There will be other patients in the same position.) He was sure of it. Years of dealing with the darker side of humanity had taught Saitoh that abuse of any variety was malignant in nature. It fed on suffering and thrived in the festering environment of collusion and cruelty.

Yamamoto added a generous amount of crème and one lump of sugar to his coffee. He wasn't surprised that the cop preferred his coffee, straight, strong and bitter. "Saitoh-san, I won't make excuses for what happened."

"Which is wise, as there are none that would be acceptable," Saitoh said flatly as he scanned an image of a redacted progress report. From what he could see, the report was regarding a scheduled visit by another doctor but was mostly blacked out and in one case, half of the page was missing entirely.

The nurse said nothing for a moment. In the face of such ineptitude, what was there to say?

(I have to at least try and help.) A patient had been seriously neglected, perhaps harmed, because no one was willing to ask questions or speak up for those who lacked a voice.

"You should know that he's not . . . normal. I don't know what, but there's something . . . different about him." Yamamoto was no stranger to violence, nor was he prone to being overly optimistic about the long-term prognosis of the patients in this facility. Rehabilitation nurses who wanted to reach retirement age couldn't afford to be. While Okita-san had never exhibited the violent, destructive tendencies that were part and parcel of drug use, there was something lurking just beneath the surface of the man's easy laughter and sunny disposition that was best left undisturbed.

"I've worked with Okita for well over a decade, Yamamoto-san, and am well aware of his aversion to anything remotely normal, reasonable or sensible," Saitoh nodded in appreciation as the nurse handed him a piping hot mug of coffee. He made note of the nurses warning however. He'd be a fool not to with so many unanswered questions about the fate of his friend. "He also has extensive military training and if threatened, would be a dangerous adversary to deal with. Your instincts do you credit."

Yamamoto sat down across from where he was sitting, processing this new bit of information. "He was unconscious for weeks, but he was on his feet within a day after gaining consciousness. I mean, he looked starved."

"Any idea why he woke up?"Saitoh scowled at this new information, as unwelcome as it was. He took a tentative sip of the coffee. While not the acidic sludge that he was partial to, it was dark roasted and wasn't freshly brewed.

"The nurse who was there reported that he asked her to scratch his nose. It was itching," Yamamoto said sheepishly. The nurse, still harboring a crush on the enigmatic patient, was always asking him how Okita-san was doing and if he needed anything.

(Speaking of crushes...)

"Saitoh-san, are you married? If so, I'd keep him away from your wife." Yamamoto seemed bemused as he added, "Was he always a flirt?"

Saitoh quirked up a dark eyebrow. What an impertinent question. His marital status (technically engaged, practically hitched except for the paperwork) was no one's damn business.

Okita's proclivity towards being an addle-pated Lothario was another matter entirely. "The man is incorrigible when it comes to such matters. I'd offer my sincere condolences to the female members of your staff, but I quite doubt they're bitching about the situation."

Yamamoto nearly did a spit take of hot coffee. "There have been no complaints as yet."

Saitoh rolled his eyes, imagining moon-eyed nitwits dropping their panties at the drop of a hat.

A few minutes later, a nurse's assistant came into the break room and announced that Okita was outside, waiting in the lobby. Saitoh nodded and drained the scalding cup of coffee.

"Thank you for assisting in this matter," Saitoh said, "the coffee wasn't half bad either." For Saitoh, that was quite a compliment.

While Kinoshita and anyone else who was found complicit in this investigation would face the unflinching demands of justice, individuals like Yamamoto-san and others in the facility who had not been a part of whatever the hell was going on here, would not be strangers to mercy. Yamamoto had been honest, had attempted to be helpful and made good coffee. He was, as Karen was wont to say, a good egg. (Or at least has the potential to be one...) Saitoh always did background checks, even on the nice ones.

Saitoh thought of an email he'd received earlier in the morning by a lieutenant in Ugamoe's former squad. The young man, barely out of the academy, had followed the piss poor example of the older officers in the second division and made some errors in judgement and in two instances, had failed to follow protocol. He'd confessed as much and while apologizing, had not tried to weasel his way out of the situation.

After carefully reviewing the lieutenant's work history, confirmed that he was drug free and not on the payroll of the syndicates, as that would result in immediate termination, Saitoh had spared the man his job, though he did put the twit on probation and would work with him directly to ensure that in the future, the new officer would have the example and training to make the right choices and retain his honor.

"Is there anything else you need to tell me before we go and speak with Okita?"

**Yamamoto**

Yamamoto's lips gave a little twitch. He wasn't sure how much "waiting" Okita was doing, at least not in the way one envisioned. He would have been surprised if Okita was indeed sitting idly and waiting for his friend. Yamamoto could hear music, and knew that something was going on.

He looked Saitou in the eyes, and breathed out his nose. What more could he say about Okita? He had warned the man. He had advised him on how to help someone with amnesia. He had even gone through what little medical information they had.

So, he did the only thing left to do. He reached into his pocket and handed the officer his business card. "No, but if you have anymore questions give me a call."

He then got up, "I'll bring Okita-san in. I think this room would be better suited for a reunion."

Before he left, he turned around, the music louder now, "Saitou-san, I am going to need that file back."

**Okita**

\- Earlier-

Okita pulled on the waist of the jeans. He was now wearing his jeans, and noted there was plenty of room to grow. He whistled.

"I am going to need a lot more burgers . . . " he said out loud as he looped the belt through.

He had been so absorbed in enjoying his burgers that he hadn't really paid attention to the nurse as she told him what to expect about the outside world. It had been a poorly organized meeting. Of course, they had little practice.

She had told him about the dangers of triggers, and how he would want to use again. He scratched his arms, and thought about the woman that had died for opening the door.

She told him about his new living situation, and Okita thought about the officer that shot his brother in arms. It was unjustifiable. Those were your comrades, your family, you had to rely on each, and they had turned on one another.

She told him about . . . well, he couldn't remember. He had stopped listening, satisfied with the taste of real food.

As soon as he had been released he had gone to his room, held the pile of clothes in his hands for a few minutes, rubbing the cloth, before slowly bringing it up to his nose. They had that stored away smell, not overwhelmingly so, but it was there. He had then laid each piece of clothing out on the bed.

Okita laughed as he realized he had apparently been a boxer briefs kinda man, and one that enjoyed a wacky print. The current pair had tiny little samurais all over. Thankfully, the rest of his clothing was far less loud.

He remembered Shiori showing him magazines of the latest fashions, back when he was too weak to leave the bed, and wondering what kind of clothes he had liked.

A black shirt, jeans, and a kick ass leather jacket were hardly indicative of what he had liked but he did know that it was a sense of style he could get behind.

Okita ran his hands through his hair, before deciding to pull it up into a high ponytail. He looked up and froze, a different man stood before the mirror, still pulling his hair up but this man was much younger and in a hakama and gi.

Then it was gone, and it was just a man far too thin and pale in clothes that hung too loose. Okita quickly looked away, he didn't need to see that.

He threw his jacket on in one dramatic move, picked up the box with his belongings (oranges, slippers, sketchpad, crayons, and his toothbrush).

As he opened the door, he shouted out, "Maestro! The music!"

**Yamamoto**

Yamamoto found Okita dancing circles around Kinoshita, who was livid. No one seemed to be paying him any mind though, much more intent on seeing Okita off in style.

Yamamoto wasn't sure why they had chosen to dance to "Stand by Me", but he supposed it was oddly fitting.

"This is inappropriate!" Kinoshita yelled at the delinquent, almost purple in the face.

The nurse in Okita's arms threw her head back and laughed as Okita "sang" to her. "It's just a little bit of fun Kinoshita-sensei."

"He's leaving!" said someone else.

"If you want, I'll even dance with you." Okita grinned, at the man. However it only seemed to enrage him more.

"You're disrupting carefully planned schedules!"

"Maa maa!" Okita soothed as he twirled his partner around. "You can't schedule fun in."

The nurse in his arms giggled, "He does."

Okita laughed, and looked down at the woman in his arms, suddenly he was seeing another woman who had also laughed and danced with him, his heart ached, "Souji! Be serious! I am trying to tell you something!"

He blinked and it was the nurse again, she gave him a questioning look so he gave a dramatic sigh. "I guess if Kinoshita-san says we must reschedule then we must reschedule."

"That's not what I said!" He snapped, pointing at each nurse, "Get back to work!" He then whirled to face Okita, "AND YOU –"

Yamamoto decided it was the perfect time to intervene, "Okita-san, Saitou-san is waiting for you in the break room if you'll follow me?"

Okita twirled the nurse in his arms into Kinoshita's, bowed, before turning on his heel and following behind Yamamoto. He tried desperately to quell the rush of emotions.

Outside the breakroom

Okita stood with his hand on the door, his heart racing . . .

**Saitoh**

Halfway through responding to a text message from a particularly thick-headed member of the media. (Said message consisted of "No Comment. Ever.") Saitoh looked up and frowned as a vaguely familiar song could be heard playing somewhere.

If the sky that we look upon, should tumble and fall, or the mountains should crumble to the sea…

He thought about music for a second, going through his memories to determine where he'd heard it before. As the memory emerged, it caused his stomach to clench painfully.

**TWO YEARS EARLIER**

Groaning, Saitoh cracked open his red, bleary eyes and immediately regretted it. The world, one that had been blessedly dark for what seemed like an eternity – or at least most of a weekend, was far too bright and loud for his liking and was spinning haphazardly on a strange axis.

He closed his eyes against the nausea.

Closing his ears against the grating music that was blaring in the car (or so he felt) wasn't possible.

"Turn that damn music off," he growled, eyes still closed.

"You know the rules. My car. My music," the driver and diehard aficionado of American Classical Music said quietly, the normal humor in his tenor voice gone.

It wasn't the only thing missing.

Two men savaged by grief, one handling it better (at least outwardly) than the other, made their way through the suburbs of New Meiji, trying not to think about the two women who should have been in the car with them, two women who were gone and had taken so much of a life worth living with them.

Leaning back in the passenger side seat, Saitoh fell silent for several minutes and tried not to throw up. It had happened before (more times than Saitoh wanted to acknowledge) and Okita had incessantly given him hell each time.

Saitoh's head was pounding. It always did when he was sobering up. The fact that he'd conked it on the bathtub faucet when Okita literally threw him into a very cold shower didn't help.

I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear, just as long as you stand, stand by me...

Bullshit. That's what this music was. Sentimental bullshit.

Saitoh was sick of it. Sick of so many things.

Yaso had loved this song and on more than one occasion he'd found his wife and best friend singing along together as if they didn't have a care in the world. The thought of his sweetheart, of the woman he loved and had lost so violently, made his churning stomach and throbbing head threaten to commit mutiny.

"Dammit, Souji, turn the fucking car around," he ordered, swallowing hard against the bile clawing its way up this throat.

"I would if I could but I have this fatal disease that makes me care for hard headed people," Okita said, checking his blind spot before switching lanes. He was getting closer to the exit that would take the car to Katsu's house, a place that Saitoh had no desire whatsoever, to go to. "Your boys are waiting for you and I promised Tsutomu he would see you today."

"The boys are better off where they are," Saitoh scowled and looked away, out the window for as long as he could stomach it.

"Pft, with your sister?" Okita rolled his eyes as he took the off-ramp, "you really think leaving your kids with Medusa is what they need?"

Saitoh shrugged, wishing that it wasn't so.

"What they need is to not be forgotten," Okita's voice while soft was sterner than tempered steel.

"Go to hell," as far as pithy retorts went, it wasn't up to his standards, but in fairness, neither was he.

"Been there, done that, you idiot," Okita gripped the steering wheel harder, his patience wearing thin, "dammit, Hajime, you're about to lose everything!"

Saitoh slammed his fist into the dashboard, causing the passenger side air bag alarm to sound in warning.

"I have lost everything!" he hissed savagely. His wife was gone, his children taken away by a sister who hated him for failing to protect her best friend.

"Not yet," Okita snapped back, his eyes flashing with emotion, "and I refuse to let you throw your life away!"

So darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh stand by me, oh stand by me, stand by me...

**Saitoh**

The music outside of the breakroom was punctuated by someone shrieking like a stuck pig.

(Kinoshithead) This was a name that better suited the pathetically inept man.

Saitoh decided that Okita had been in very rough shape indeed as the psychiatrist was still alive and sporting all of his limbs. He looked forward to getting the hell out of the mad house and taking his friend with him.

CLICK.

The break room door opened.

Saitoh took an expectant step forward. While too thin, his clothing hanging from his frame, the pale man, his hair caught up in an eerily familiar fashion, was undoubtedly Okita.

A step forward was all Saitoh got.

For the space between one relieved heartbeat and the next, he made eye contact with his long missing partner.

Okita smiled.

Then vanished in a blur.

Saitoh had seen speed like this only once before, at a café in the afternoon, by a red-haired monster, a manslayer armed with a katana. Muscle memory long honed in the service of New Meiji kicked in and he threw himself to the side, barely having time to shift his stance into the semblance of something defensive before he was hit. Hard.

Saitoh saw stars as Okita's fist connected with his jaw. Pain exploded, shooting up into his skull and down his spine. The blow was hard enough to send him flying back at least ten feet, knocking the air out of his lungs. He landed on his back, then rolled hard, twisting his lanky body up as his hand went to the high caliber handgun at his hip. Instantly activating, his DNA, a match to the registry, the gun lit up, the laser sight going blood red.

Gun up, crouched low, Saitoh fought against instincts that screamed for him to take the life-saving shot. When dealing with users, life and death was measured in milliseconds. His finger was on the trigger. The laser sight was fixed squarely on the chest of the user.

A user who wasn't.

Where an instant before, there had been a fleeting imprint of a man unnaturally strong and fast, his friend, the man who'd saved his life and had fought to keep his family intact, was standing calmly, as if nothing had happened, still smiling.

"Souji!" Saitoh growled, adrenaline surging through his system, the fight or flight response in full force. "What in the hell are you doing?"

**Okita**

The door swung open, Okita smiled at the man wearing the bright blue haori.

"_Saitoh-san," Okita singsonged, "Hijikata-san is pissed." He then grinned as he added, "You're dead." _

_Saitoh shook out of his wet haori and glared at the shorter man, "The only dead man I see right now, is you." He then threw his wet haori at Okita, who spluttered and laughed._

_The door swung closed, Okita blinked, and a much taller man stood in the break room in a New Meiji's police uniform. _

_Okita plopped down in front of the man that had somehow managed to create an area all to himself in the crowded mess hall, it was probably his scowl, and reached over with his own spoon to dig into the other man's curry. _

_Saitoh glared, tightening his hold on his spoon. The words, what the fuck, ringing through his head as he snarled out, through gritted teeth, "Who the hell do you think you are?" _

_Okita swallowed, and grinned, "Your new best friend." He reached out for a second spoonful only to find his hand pinned to the table by Saitoh's spoon. He blinked in surprise; he hadn't even seen the man move! It proved one thing though, Okita was right, there was a lot of potential in their new soldier. _

_Just as the atmosphere was becoming unbearable, as everyone watched and waited for Okita to react, Okita burst out laughing. He knew an equal when saw one. _

"_Careful there Lieutenant, you don't want me to write you up for insubordination." _

_Saitoh's eyes quickly flashed to the insignia on the other man's army uniform. "Do you want me to remove the spoon, Captain?" Throwing emphasis on the last word. _

Okita grinned through the confusing stream of memories. It was a familiar face, and that was what mattered. Finally.

He was finally going to get out of here, and though he rejoiced, a part of him flew into panic. There were just too many questions . . .

Who had he been? What had happened? What didn't he remember? Focus, one thing at a time, he reminded himself.

Saitoh took a step forward. Okita, too, took a step forward; his gut telling him that Saitou deserved a very special hello.

Okita didn't see why he should ignore his gut, especially since this one did not spring from violence, and so for the first time since regaining consciousness he didn't hold back. Trusting in his instincts.

He punched the man. He had punched an officer of the law. He punched his friend before they had even said anything.

He had only intended to walk up to his friend but his next steps were faster than he expected and the "tap" he had intended had sent his friend flying.

One thing was for sure though, he was going to get out of here. The question was, was he leaving in handcuffs or with his arm looped through his friend's? Not that either option really sounded that great.

Okita mentally shook himself, now was NOT the time, he could hear movement outside.

So, he did what came natural.

He laughed as Saitou rolled and aimed a killing shot. "Those instincts will serve you well, Major, but they're not needed today."

He walked, careful to keep his steps slow, over to his friend, partner, comrade, and brother, and held out his hand, "I don't exactly know why, but I get the feeling you deserved that."

**Saitoh**

_Those instincts will serve you well, Major, but they're not needed today._

Souji then laughed.

"Ahou." This was no time for humor.

Saitoh shook his head, schooling his expression into a hard mask. (Yamamoto said he'd never been violent before.) True, the nurse had also warned him that there was something different about his former partner, but had failed to mention that Okita Souji had the strength and speed of a user utilizing the strongest and most dangerous variety of AMP. (They wouldn't be releasing him if he'd exhibited these behaviors previously.) Users of this variety were simply too dangerous to be released into society.

The toxicology reports had been clear that Okita was no user, yet he moved and had the strength of one. What in the fuck was going on?

Saitoh slipped his gun back into the holster quickly as Yamamoto ran into the breakroom. The nurse's dark brown eyes were wide. Worried. "Okita-san! What's going on here?" Saitoh wasn't sure what the nurse had seen, as he'd been knocked on his ass and had instinctively tried to defend himself.

"See! I told you!" Kinoshita stumbled into the breakroom, his comb-over finally giving up the ghost and flopping every which way into his beady eyes as he pushed his way through a group of gawking men and women who'd crowded around the break room. "I told you addicts were violent, unstable," the psychiatrist crowed nastily, his beaked nose flaring with satisfaction. "He's no better than anyone else here and doesn't deserve to leave this facility!"

Okita walked up to where Saitoh was still crouching and held out his hand and despite what had just occurred, he took it without hesitation. Okita was his brother and friend. Period. The rest of this mess would be figured out privately rather than in the presence of a bunch of bird wits.

_I don't know exactly why, but I get the feeling you deserved that. _

"Aa. I did," Saitoh said simply, his anger and confusion from the hit dissipating for the time being. While not one to apologize for much of anything, in this case, accepting responsibility for the dishonorable way he'd parted ways with his friend over a year ago, was absolutely necessary.

**Okita**

The corner of Okita's grin twitched as he pulled his friend up. He smelled a story there, but it was going to have to wait until they left the center.

"You'll have to tell me about it sometime."

"Okita-san?" Yamamoto sounded unsure. Okita had his back to the crowd but he could hear their silent panic.

Except for Kinoshita who was being very vocal about the fact that Okita was a violent criminal, and Okita had to agree with him. After all hadn't he just sent his friend flying? Not that any of them had seen him do it.

He studied his friend's face, grinning even wider, as Saitoh glared back for the intrusion. It was no use though, he could not make sense of his limited memories and the man before him. The man before him had a healthier color than some of his memories but he had no context.

Now was not the time though. He sighed against the noise and against the urge to rub his arms. Instead he reached into a pocket and withdrew an orange.

"Saitoh-san! You saw it for yourself didn't you?!" Okita could practically smell Kinoshita's excitement.

"He shouldn't be allowed to leave!" Okita could almost hear the spit leave Kinoshita's mouth and he felt it was time to say something.

Okita turned around and smiled at the crowd, "Everything is fine Yamamoto-san. Saitoh-san simply slipped he was so surprised to see me."

Yamamoto's shoulders tensed and he took an involuntary step back. Okita's words may have been light but his eyes . . . there was no laughter there. "Okita-san . . . if you need to –"

"You're dangerous!" shouted Kinoshita, pointing a triumphant finger, clearly not really paying attention to anything anyone had said or his surroundings.

Okita threw back his head and laughed at that, "Of course I am." He then looked the man in the eye and smirked, his tone serious and unforgiving, "I never pretended to be otherwise, but it is time for us to go."

**Saitoh**

_Everything is fine Yamamoto-san. Saitou-san simply slipped he was so surprised to see me. _

Saitoh snorted at the absurdity of the idea. His fingers were itching, either for a cigarette or Kinoshita's scrawny neck.

Okita looked up and gave him a sunny, shit eating grin.

Saitoh glared at the twit.

It was how they had operated for many years.

_He shouldn't be allowed to leave! _

Once again, the moron masquerading as a psychiatrist, was sputtering and spitting like a lawn sprinkler. The last man this foolish that Saitoh had dealt with had been killed two days prior, his AMP'd body split neatly from his hip to his head by a slip of a red-headed nightmare after the former second division captain of the New Meiji Police force had shot an innocent woman in the chest at point blank range.

While the executioner could not and would not be pardoned for ridding the world of a dirty cop and murderer, justice, in the oldest and harshest form, that of a life for a life, had transpired. When the vigilante was found, and either killed or arrested, convicted and hanged the harsh justice that was part and parcel with the hard world of New Meiji would occur once more.

The look Saitoh gave Kinoshita was less of a nasty smirk and more of a wolf's sharp teeth being bared. Justice would also be served for this man and it would be as hard and as tight as any hangman's noose, though the means of execution (licensing divisions, medical ethics boards and regulatory oversight committees) were a bit less dramatic and took a bit more time and patience, and that was a quality he had in spades.

_You're dangerous! _

Okita laughed and confirmed the psychiatrist's accusations and then announced it was time to leave. The hackles at the base of Saitoh's neck bristled at the tone in Okita's voice. He knew that tone. It was a prelude, a warning from a man who was far more dangerous than Kinoshita could ever fathom.

Damn right it was time to get out of this nuthouse.

The tension in the room was nearly at a breaking point and if all hell broke loose, breaking of the human variety was a distinct possibility. Okita's stability, or the potential lack thereof, made for a very uncertain situation, one that Saitoh did not like, nor could he afford. There were innocent people in the room, the lab coat wearing fuckwit notwithstanding and if Okita went after one of them…

Saitoh cut off that line of thinking sharply.

"Yare…yare…," he drawled, deep voice dripping with sarcasm, "don't get your girly panties in a twist, Kinoshita-san." As Saitoh walked past his friend, he reached out and briefly put a hand on the man's shoulder, gripping Okita's far too thin clavicle, "It's most unbecoming."

(Speaking of panties…)

Saitoh inwardly chuckled as a young nurse caught his attention as she pushed, rather urgently, yet ineffectively against the crowd of gawkers massed at the breakroom door. She was a little snip of a woman with wide, worried brown eyes and short hair that curled around a concerned, albeit kind looking face.

He'd seen many a young (and sometimes not so young) lady fall head over heels for his friend. Ironically, Okita had reciprocated in kind to only one. Saitoh observed that the diminutive nurse resembled the woman Okita had loved and also lost and then set the observation aside, gently.

"Now, you see here!" Face sweaty and red from embarrassment and anger, Kinoshita slithered to the breakroom entrance, blocking (or at least trying to) the door, his hands outstretched. "If you think that I'm going to allow that…that…dangerous, reckless menace out of this rehabilitation facility," he poked Saitoh sharply in the chest, "you're sadly mistaken, Officer!"

"I think not," Saitoh said blandly as he took hold of the silly man's labcoat and lifted him off his feet and, ignoring a fresh salvo of sputtering and spit, dragged him over to a break table and sat the man down upon it, none too gently. "Now quit being a pain in the ass and stay put."

Fogged up glasses teetering on the tip of his pointed nose, Kinoshita squirmed on the table for a second, then after seeing the expressions of the two men in question, stayed put, what little sense he possessed saving the weaselly man from a well-deserved ass kicking.

"Ahh, Saitoh-san?" Yamamoto motioned for the police officer, "Perhaps we should make final discharge arrangements while Okita-san says his good-byes?" Saitoh nodded curtly, giving Kinoshita a glare that could peel paint off the side of a barn before the twit could protest.

Saitoh and the nurse walked to the entrance of the breakroom. Yamamoto asked the crowd to disperse nicely. Saitoh didn't and moments later, the breakroom was nearly empty, save for Yamamoto, Okita, the twit on the table and the young nurse, who despite Saitoh's rather severe orders to disperse, had bravely remained put.

"I'm going to note this in my daily report!" Kinoshita whined, his spindly legs dangling off the table.

"Hopefully you will have the chance, Kinoshita-san," Saitoh said, trying for cheerful and coming across deeply creepy, as he motioned back towards his partner. "After all, you're dealing with a very dangerous, violent patient, one who you're about to be left alone with," Saitoh bowed slightly, "best of luck."

Kinoshita made a gurgling noise and quit squirming and jumped off the break room table and ran like his life depended on it out the breakroom door, his lab coattails flapping nearly as vigorously as his comb-over as he booked it down the hallway.

Yamamoto covered his mouth with his hand and pretended to cough rather than snicker.

"I'll be in the lobby waiting for you, Brat, so hurry it up."

At this point, Saitoh may or may not have given his partner a wink as a certain brown eyed nurse hurried into the break room and made a beeline for the man. If there were any credible witnesses to said eye wink, they were not talking.

**Okita**

Okita plopped an orange slice into his mouth, and counted his blessings:

1\. Despite the day's surprises, sending your friend flying definitely counted as a surprise, he and Saitou were brothers and he was not alone in this. Okita had felt much of his uncertainty and tension melt away with the simple hand to the shoulder. And, after months of uncertainty he needed that.

2\. Speaking of uncertainty, he was certain that he was leaving this dump. His accidental slip was not keeping him from leaving. Though, he was also sure that Dr. Sinister would have found a way to set him free.

3\. Ah, Dr. Sinister . . . now he was a blessing for another time.

4\. Okita savored the sweetness of the orange, he was alive and he had a friend.

Speaking of his friend, Okita quirked an eyebrow as said friend winked. "Whatever you say Tink –"

He really should have been paying attention though as Shiori all but ran into him not at all caring that the other two men were still in the room.

"Okita-san! What did you do?!" Shiori beat her fist against Okita's chest. "What did I say?!"

Okita bent over the woman, and began to choke on the orange slice, gasping for air.

Shiori however, being the trained nurse that she was, quickly began beating Okita on his back, completely ignoring the heimlich. "Okita-san! Breathe!"

"Shiori-san!" Yamamoto looked alarmed as the woman continued to thump Okita on the back, "Relax!"

Okita coughed, dislodged the orange into his hand giving it a moment's notice before throwing it back into his mouth and swallowing. He quickly grabbed hold of Shiori's wrists twisting her around so that for the second time that day her back was to his chest and she was temporarily restrained, "Maa maa! Shiori-san, calm down!"

Shiori squirmed for a moment, and then felt all the fight leave her as she stared at her shoes, and in a small voice she whispered, "Okita-san, what did you do?"

Okita sighed, nodded to the men that he had the situation under control. Great, now he was going to have to explain this too. He watched as Yamamoto sent one last glance over his shoulder before he left, and was that amusement he saw in Saitou's? Damn it. Nothing he could do about it.

"Shiori-san, I didn't do anything." Okita didn't like the idea of having to restrain the young woman, she didn't deserve that, and so he let her go.

Shiori quickly whirled around, her eyes wide with shock and worry, "Liar." She took a step forward, and once again hit the man on the chest completely overwhelmed. "You were supposed to be different."

Okita tilted his head to the side, as he looked down at the distraught woman, not sure what she had witnessed, and feeling guilty that he should have caused such a reaction. The woman did not deserve this. "Shiori-san, what do you think I did?"

"No," Shiori glared up at Okita, her fists closing around his shirt, "You tell me what you did."

"I said hello to me friend?" Okita smiled innocently at the woman, and when she tugged on his shirt he gave in. He sighed, "Shiori-san you are wasting your life here, and you are wasting your time with me."

It was not the answer she was expecting, and it threw her. She dealt with difficult patients all day long, it was her job, but Okita had never been difficult. At least not in the usual way, and it was so easy to forget that he was a patient, an addict. The reminder hurt.

Shiori too sighed, and she let go of Okita's shirt smoothing it down as best she could. He was still too thin she thought. "No, you're different. I know you are."

Okita watched as she reached for one of his hands taking it in hers. He knew he should put a stop to it, but the act seemed oddly familiar that he couldn't bring himself to. Not just yet. He was reminded of another woman who had held his hand in his dream. "Shiori-san . . ."

She shook her head, feeling the calluses. "Did you know that I used to talk to you when you were unconscious?" Shiori had been going through a rough patch with her boyfriend and had found the comatose man an easy listener. She had felt so sorry for him, all alone and so close to death. She had wondered if anyone would miss him, and thinking that the least she could do was hold his hand, and so she had.

"Hmm, so you're the one that wouldn't let me go." Okita smiled roguishly at the woman. "I would have appreciated it if you had scratched my nose."

Shiori laughed, "You scared Honda-san." She tightened her hold on his hand. "Okita-san, what did you do?"

Okita lay his free hand on top of Shiori's head, "You are too good for this world Shiori."

Shiori blushed at the way he said her name, but she kept her tone stern as she said, "Okita-san. Answer the question."

"Maaa," Okita laughed, "I told you. I said hello to my friend . . . it was just more than I was expecting."

Shiori looked up at the taller man, he looked distant and she wanted to help, "Did you hurt him?"

Okita ruffled her hair and laughed even more when she frowned, "No. I didn't mean to hurt him."

"You didn't mean to?" Shiori squeezed Okita's hand.

Okita grinned, dropping his voice as he whispered, "Of course I didn't. You saw Saitou walk out of here, if I had meant to do the man any real damage he wouldn't be walking."

Shiori rolled her eyes at the proud glint in Okita's eyes. "Okita-san it really won't be the same without you . . ." And it was saying it out loud that really cemented the idea, she was going to miss the man.

Okita looked down at the woman for a few seconds before pulling her into a hug. He felt her tense, heard her heart race, and then she eased into the hug. He whispered into her ear, "Listen, Shiori, this is important."

Okita breathed in, remembering to slip her phone back into her sweater pocket, and tried to find the words, "Shiori, find another job and forget me. You deserve so much more than this."

Shiori hiccupped and shook her head against his shirt.

"Shiori," Okita's voice was unusually stern, "Just take care of yourself. Don't talk to strangers . . ." He almost laughed at what he was saying, but he didn't know what to say.

"I am going to miss you."

Okita sighed, afraid that she wasn't getting it, "Shiori, stay away from the Dr. from earlier. . ."

Shiori nodded, she could hear the urgency in his voice, but she didn't understand. "Why?"

" . . . I don't know . . . trust me."

It was Shiori who pulled away, rubbing her palms against her eyes, "Your friend is probably waiting for you."

"Shiori . . ." Okita's voice was cold but he knew he had no real evidence except a gut instinct. His mind replaying the way Dr. Sinister looked at his friend.

Shiori smiled, throwing her arms around Okita, "Don't worry about me. Just take care of yourself and remember what I said." She let go of him and sent him a brilliant smile, "You are a success, and no matter what, I think you are different."

Okita watched, stunned, as she turned around, and as she reached the door, she turned around once more and winked.

Okita stood there for a few minutes before he began coughing, silently wondering at the whole exchange.

**Saitoh**

"Saitoh-san," Yamamoto was troubled, deeply so, "perhaps we need to re-think this."

"No," Saitoh said curtly as he carefully read over the paperwork detailing the provisions of Okita's discharge. He memorized the name and address of the independent living facility that his friend had been assigned to and made a note to give the place a thorough once over in the event it was half assed and backward like the rehabilitation center where his former partner had languished for months.

"He's leaving."

Yamamoto sighed, exasperated at the stubborn, thick headed policeman. "You saw what he did. You pulled a gun on him for crying out loud!"

Saitoh gave a dismissive shrug as he turned the page on the pamphlet Yamamoto had given him. "I've threatened to shoot the twit before and I'm sure I'll do it again."

Yamamoto leaned wearily against the lobby desk. He was exhausted and it wasn't even noon yet. "If I asked you how you met Okita-san, would you tell me?"

"No."

Saitoh finished reading the pamphlet and tucked it away. He frowned as the young nurse hurried out of the breakroom, the bright smile and happy façade she'd plastered on her pretty face fracturing, showing worry and sorrow instead.

His frown deepened when he heard Okita coughing again. He had memories that whispered what coughing meant. He ignored them.

"Saitoh-san," Yamamoto hesitated for a second as he watched the officer's chronically pissed off expression darken. He'd hoped that the person who Okita-san had remembered and called to pick him up would be kind; a compassionate, supportive individual who would be willing to stand beside a man whose recovery was going to be anything but easy.

This man was none of those things.

Saitoh glared at the nurse, annoyed with the current line of questioning.

"Despite what occurred in the breakroom," Yamamoto looked down for a moment, rubbing his shoe on a scuff mark, "I believe that Okita-san is a good man who deserves a second chance at living." He thought about the strange patient, who up until this morning, had never been violent or cruel and despite his penchant for hair-brained hijinks, the hoarding of oranges and crayons and driving certain psychiatrists up the wall, had always been kind to the other patients and staff. Okita-san had brought laughter to a place that had none.

"I want you to promise me that you'll look after Okita-san and see to it that he gets the support he needs to get well."

Saitoh folded his arms and regarded Yamamoto for a moment. "You're hardly in a position to make demands of this nature," he pointed out dryly.

Yamamoto pushed off the lobby table and walked over to where the tall, arrogant man was standing, "That may be true, but I am determined that Okita-san won't fall through the cracks again. Promise me."

"Ahou," Saitoh said quietly, the usual sting of the insult missing, "you have my word." He turned, hearing Okita coming through the breakroom, "So quit fussing."

"Gods, Souji, are you done yet?" Saitoh groused as he took the breathing filter he'd brought with him and tossed it to his friend, "or do you need to go and give Kinoshita a good bye kiss?"

**Okita**

Okita caught the breathing filter, even as he gave a few clearing coughs. Then in a voice that was equally suggestive and sarcastic, and a little raspy from coughing, said, "I am afraid I wouldn't be able to contain myself if I gave Kinoshita a kiss."

Saitou studied Okita for a moment, frowning, but decided not to comment on his friend's cough. Instead he said, "Then let's go, brat."

Okita chuckled, "Oh I love it when you talk all romantic to me." Then winking at the taller man, adjusted the breathing filter over his nose and mouth.

"Do you want me to leave you here?" Saitou growled.

"Maa maa, where's the love?"

"If you wanted love then you called the wrong person."

Okita snorted, "Obviously." Then picking up his scanty belongings, moving them out of Saitou's reach as the man tried to take them from him, "I am just a poor soul here," he said affecting a wounded attitude.

Yamamoto watched as the two men bickered and began walking to the exit, and they had nearly exited the building when Okita stopped for a moment, bowed and thanked him. Yamamoto returned the bow, "Please take care of yourself Okita-san."

Okita didn't put up much of a fight as Saitou took the man's bag, it wouldn't do to get into a tug of war in the lobby of the center, especially since he was sure Saitou didn't stand a chance. It was a theory he wasn't ready to test out so in the end he let his friend help him. "Yamamoto-san . . ." Okita thought carefully about how to say the next part. He still had the nasty after taste of his conversation with Shiori, and his helplessness was frustrating, but in the end all he said was, "Take care and watch out for suspicious characters."

Yamamoto smiled at that, "One of the most suspicious is leaving today."

Yamamoto couldn't see through the breathing filter but Okita's lips twitched up into a smile. "You are right there . . ."

"Oy, do you want to leave or not?" Saitou cut in with his usual grace, his eyebrow raised in silent question, why are you dragging your feet?

Okita gave Yamamoto a final bow before turning to Saitou and saying, "Don't worry you'll get me all to yourself soon enough." And with that he walked out the center into the putrid air without a backwards look, following behind as Saitou led the way to a dark blue sedan.

Once in the car, with the air purification system on, Okita ripped off the breathing filter, and rubbed his hands over his face, sinking into the passenger seat.

"What the fucking hells . . . " All amusement and cheeriness gone he turned to Saitou and said, "Where do I even start?"

**Two Wolves of New Meiji have reunited. This is a long story, folks, so buckle up!**

Also, while you are reading, please take a moment and leave us a review? We love writing and appreciate the feedback!

As always - thanks for stopping by!

MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh)

Legalronin (Okita)


	3. Chapter 3

**A Welcome Wagon of One - Chapter 3**

A Gumi Reloaded Story

Written by Legalronin (Okita and other supporting characters)

and MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh and other supporting characters)

"It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces."

― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

**This thread takes place directly after Release to the Wild. If you want to read what happened before this thread with this duo, go to Release to the Wild.**

**Saitoh **

_What the fucking hells…where do I even start?_

"Idiot. You already have," Saitoh looked his friend squarely, his expression devoid of any pity, an emotion both of them hated, "regardless of how it happened, you've managed to get discharged from this shithole," his mouth tightened in anger as the sedan started up automatically, doors locking with a metallic click, "which you didn't belong in to begin with."

He caught Okita giving him a side eye and glared ferociously at the man, daring him to even try and argue. While the accusations leveled at his friend about being a general menace to society and a downright pain in the ass were fair and reasonable, his status as a thief and worthless user were categorically false.

"Listen. You're an infuriating brat and your inane prattle could drive a Buddha to commit murder, but you're no addict," he said tersely, as sure of this fact as he was of the muzzle velocity of his semi-automatic handgun (4500 kilometers per hour), "so get any of that bullshit they told out of your head right now."

Saitoh pulled out of the rehab center parking lot, mentally imagining the place burning down while hungry ravens picked clean Kinoshita's beady little eye sockets. He wasn't sure why or how ravens ended up at the facility, to say nothing of making a nest on the buffoon's desk, but having them make an end of things appealed to his morbid sense of humor.

"As for the rest," Saitoh shrugged and adjusted the environmental controls in the car to the highest setting as he headed for an access way to one of the main highways that bisected the megalopolis, "your memory might be for shit, but your skills and training haven't deserted you," he paused for a moment, then gruffly added, "nor have your friends."

He snorted irritably, "Even if they are sentimental morons, myself included."

The rehab facility had been situated up in the hills that lined the boundaries of the Eastern part of the city proper. The air, while still dangerous to breathe, was pristine compared to what it would be like downtown and as they got on the expressway that led downwards in that direction, the air around them visibly worsened, going from a light white mist to a dark, churning grey miasma of heavy particulates.

**Okita**

_You're an infuriating brat and your inane prattle could drive a Buddha to commit murder, but you're no addict._

Okita snorted and resisted the impulse to touch his forearms, to feel the scars that still marked them. Scars that seemed to contradict Saitou's words, and all the while he could hear Dr. Sinister's words.

_. . . an uncommon man . . .drug addicts tend to not have good stories . . . _

He breathed in, and decided not to argue though. There would be no point, not until they knew more. So he leaned back against the black leather seats, tilted his head up at the roof of the car wondering if he had used, before turning to look at his self-proclaimed sentimental friend, and giving him a lopsided grin.

"Aww, you big softie. You missed me."

He didn't have to tell Saitou how much he appreciated knowing he had friends, the man already knew.

The corners of his mouth twitched as he watched the houses, and buildings zip by as Saitou drove. They were getting closer to the heart of the city, and haze was almost impossible to see through. What had they done to the world, he wondered. Still he was grateful to be putting distance between himself and the center, even if you could no longer see the mountains.

He turned to face forward, his hand coming up to scratch his chin, remembering that he didn't have a beard anymore. "So, Tink . . . skills and training, huh? Does that mean I was a police officer?"

He was going to get answers. He was going to learn who he was, and he knew Saitou would be far more forthcoming than Dr. Sinister. He just wasn't sure what he would find out.

Saitou narrowed his eyes. Did he not know? He looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye, and noticed that the man was determinedly looking out the window, his shoulders stiff, and just overall weary. " . . . Ah." He paused for a moment before adding, "And in the Army before that."

Okita nodded. There was less nature now, and far more concrete and pavement now. What did he ask now? What did he say now?

"Let's start with the basics, shall we?" He didn't continue right away, instead took the time to peek into cars and wonder at their occupant's lives. They weren't suffering from memory loss . . . "Age, marital status, birthday, astrological sign, blood type," and because he couldn't keep things at its current tone he cheekily added, "first time I had sex."

**Saitoh**

Saitoh pointedly ignored the "Tink" jab.

Between the combined cheekiness of Tokio and Okita, he'd have no rest and get no respect.

With Okita that was nothing new.

Saitoh waited for his friend to ask questions. Initially, they were not forthcoming as Souji seemed to be hellbent on looking into car windows. Saitoh shrugged and kept driving. His former partner used to always look at car ID markers to see if the vehicles were properly registered and running properly. Perhaps this was progress of some sort.

And then the questions started coming.

"The basics, indeed," Saitoh muttered disdainfully as he thought things over for a second, his concern regarding the degree of Okita's memory loss amplifying.

"You are thirty-six years of age, though you rarely act with the dignity that a grown man ought."

Saitoh paused and pondered how to best answer the question regarding Okita's marital status.

There is a time and a place to have that conversation he decided and the New Meiji Expressway wasn't it. He owed the one who no longer stood at Okita's side to have that discussion properly. His plan to go directly to the independent living center was shelved as Saitoh decided on a new location, one both men knew and knew well as had two women who were dead. It was close by and at this time of day, would be nearly deserted.

"You are currently single." The fact Saitoh knew he had a duty to explain that this had not always been the case, sat heavily on him.

"You were born on March 26 and have two older sisters, both of whom also fall firmly on the moronically sentimental side of the emotional spectrum," Saitoh wondered how best to tell the women that their brother was alive, and whether he even had that right, especially if Okita didn't remember them.

"Astrological Sign – Don't know. Don't care. Blood Type – O."

Saitoh gave Okita a withering scowl, "As for the last idiotic question of yours, I'll have you know that your first time was when you were in the Army, stationed in Kyoto. You lost what little virtue you had to begin with at the age of 25 to a 48-year-old prostitute with a wooden leg and missing several teeth. She gave you crabs and your entire unit gave you shit for it for the duration of the war."

Saitoh snorted as he changed lanes and took an off ramp that took them in a few short minutes to a rather sketchy back street with an even sketchier building. A hand-painted sign, half hanging and badly faded, proclaimed the abode to be Tokyo New Meiji Gogyo Noodle House. There were several empty plastic containers stacked haphazardly near the entrance and by the cracked window (the hole being stuffed with paper) was a dilapidated bike with a flat tire.

He parked the car, set the alarm settings to the highest level, made sure that his holster was open and then got out, slipping the breathing filter on as he did so.

"Come on, Brat. You said you wanted soba, so let's get some."

**Okita**

36?! Okita flipped down the passenger's sun visor, slid across the little mirror's cover, and then quickly scowled at the too-thin-face that stared back at him before slapping the visor closed, completely ignoring Saitou's glare.

"How old are you then?!" Okita studied his friend's face, and tried to determine how old the other man was.

Saitou ignored his question, and continued on answering Okita's earlier questions. The fact that he was single did not surprise him. He had been missing for a long time, and probably given up for dead. His memory tugged.

Okita rolled his eyes when his friend admitted to not knowing or caring about his astrological sign. Okita decided then and there that the man needed him in his life.

He didn't have time to really think about that though as Saitou answered his last idiotic question. An answer that made the confused and tired man laugh.

"You're a fucking asshole," he said as he continued to laugh. "Here I am, without my memory and you think it's a good idea to lie to me."

Saitou gave little clue that he was listening or even amused at Okita's reaction. So, Okita continued on, "Hey, let's not confuse your own history with mine."

Okita watched as Saitou pulled into a dump, and again his memory gave a tug. You should remember this.

"Don't ignore me! Fucking hell, you're all I have and you're lying to me." Okita shouted and laughed, it was just a ridiculous idea, but when Saitou got out of the car slipping on his breathing filter with a simple,

_"Come on, Brat. You said you wanted soba, so let's get some," _

then Okita started to get annoyed. He too got out of the car, slipping on the filter, and shouting just as Saitou slid open the door of the restaurant, "It's a lie, right?"

He didn't make it to the door, or even to the driver's side of the car, before another coughing fit seized him. He had been a little too slow in putting on his filter. One hand came up to grasp at his shirt, and the other reached out to steady himself against the car, even as Okita coughed he hoped he'd leave behind an impressive smudge on the man's car.

**Saitoh**

Payback was a bitch.

Saitoh was her biggest fan.

_It's a lie, right? _

"Do you know what they called you behind your back for months?"

Saitoh looked over his shoulder at the man, his expression far more serious than any grave could hope to be.

"Captain Crotch-Rot."

Okita's eyes widened and for a second Saitoh savored the well-deserved look of horror his friend gave him. After all the shit he'd endured from the twit about the unfortunate tattooing incident was almost forgotten. Almost.

Then his friend began to cough.

Okita gasped, and clutched at his chest, as a wracking series of coughs tore through the smaller man's frame. They sounded like they hurt like hell. Okita's expression as he reached out to steady himself by putting a hand on the sedan confirmed it.

"Oi!"

Saitoh was at Okita's side in a second, grabbing him by the crook of his arm. It was much thinner than Saitoh recalled it being. That realization and another violent round of coughing mandated action so he frog stepped the brown haired man rather rapidly around the car and into the entrance, catching the door and sliding it shut rather abruptly with his heel as he stormed into the place.

A smooth entrance it was not.

It was Kurihara Hanaya's first day on the job and he was determined to make it a good one. While this noodle house of horrors wasn't what he'd initially hoped as far as employment opportunities went, it was a start. Besides, the lunch hour rush was still a half hour away from starting so he had time to take it easy.

The rather sudden emergence of a very tall and clearly irate officer of the law dragging a man who seemed hellbent on coughing up a lung (or two) into the nearly empty restaurant, threw the new waiter's plans to the wayside.

"Hello, and welcome to New Meiji Gogyo…" Kurihara began as he began to bow.

"Move," Saitoh snapped as he walked right past the waiter, Okita in tow, bee-lining it for a secluded table in the very back of the restraint where the lightning and cleanliness of the tables were somewhat in question.

"...Noodle House…" The waiter, not quite sure if an arrest or assault was taking place, gingerly took two menus and summoning up the courage that only new (and slightly unwise) employees possess, walked back towards where the coughing man was hunched over the table and the other one (was this guy seriously a cop?) was calling him a moron and demanding that he breathe normally.

"Ahh…would you like…" Kurihara hesitantly held a menu to the amber eyed menace of a man.

"Water," Saitoh ordered.

"Huh?"

"Feh. I'll get it myself," Saitoh muttered, as he blew past the new seriously befuddled food service worker and walked back behind the counter to where the line cook was.

"…a menu?"

"Ojisan!" Saitoh nodded his head in greeting to the cigarette smoking cook. The old man glanced up and gave him a nod back, then returned to chopping up some green onions with the speed and uniformity that only experience can give a person. "Who's the nitwit waiting tables?"

"My sister's cousin's nephew," The cook didn't bother looking up this time.

"Kid's still a nitwit." Saitoh snagged a pitcher of water and a glass and marched back out towards the back of the restaurant.

"Probably."

"Here," Pitcher of water in one hand and a glass in the other, Saitoh set both on the table before Okita with a rather unceremonious clunk.

**Okita**

Okita felt Saitou grab onto his arm, and as he did so Okita managed to say, "I curse your nether regions!"

He only made to push away his friend, too scared to find out what an actual push would do, so instead he let himself be dragged and dumped into a table in the back. Even though he was about to lose his innards, he still registered the server in the front, and weakly whimpered to him, ". . . help me. . ."

However, a particularly violent cough forced Okita to focus on himself. He was still coughing when his cheery and loving friend placed the pitcher and glass in front of him. Asshole, he thought as he watched the water slosh out of the glass. He tore the mask off and reached for the pitcher. He drank greedily, water dripping from the side of his mouth, and he gave a few coughs into the pitcher, which only caused him to start to choke. He slammed the pitcher back on the table, gasping for air. "Sai- Saitou – I am dying!"

**Saitoh**

(So much for this being a nice, slow day)

Wondering if working to pay for braces and a new computer was such a good idea, Kurihara held very still for a moment, then carefully retreated back behind the safety of the counter where the line cook had now turned his attention to chopping onions.

"There are two madmen in the back of the restaurant," he confided quietly to his uncle's, sister's brother.

"Naw, Saitoh isn't bad. Known him for years, since before the war ended. Sure, he's a mean son of a bitch, but only if you have it coming."

To say that Kurihara was skeptical about what he felt was a rather generous assessment of a very uncouth man was an understatement. He prayed that the jerk didn't have a wife and kids to go home and menace at the end of the day.

"What about the other one?" The smaller man had asked for help after all, before trying to drown himself via a pitcher of water.

"Huh?" The cook looked up from his chopping and his jaw dropped, sending cigarette ashes drifting gently down on the raw vegetables. While the New Meiji Gogyo Noodle House didn't look like much, it had a rabid and highly protective band of devotees who savored the unique, subtle interplay of all sorts of spices that made the noodles at this shop so uniquely delicious.

If they only knew...

"Well, I'll be damned," The cook slapped his kitchen knife on the counter, wiped his hands on his apron and then promptly left the pile of vegetables sitting.

"Okita! As I live and breathe, I thought you were dead!"

Saitoh looked up while Okita continued to sputter, "Give him a few more minutes and another glass of water and he might be."

The cook laughed. He'd missed these two crazy kids and their banter.

**Okita**

Okita glared at Saitou, his coughs dying down, the man was just standing there. He wasn't even rubbing his back or anything. Asshole.

He once more took hold of the pitcher, drinking far more carefully this time. He gave a few more coughs, "As you live and breathe? I wish I could say I was doing the same! I am dying here and this mongrel won't even lift a finger."

Okita let his head drop down to the table in a dramatic gesture, taking a few deep breaths and regretting it. The table did not smell nice. He lifted his head, positioned himself in his seat, and mustered together some dignity.

This time, he took the glass and took a single gulp, as he gave one last cough. He gave the place a good look around. It was old, wooden, and the environmental control was making hard churning noises. I understand your pain, Okita thought. Despite the odd smell of the table, he could smell something truly delicious coming from the kitchen, he could also smell the high salt content.

The tables and chairs all looked well worn, and the windows had not been cleaned in years. Okita wasn't even sure if it was the air pollution or their own natural grime that made it impossible to see out of. Luckily there was only one large window and he wasn't near it.

The man that had come out from the kitchen was an older gentleman with a good sense about him. He reminded Okita of a picture he had seen of a grizzly bear, and it was obvious he knew Okita.

Sadly, Okita couldn't remember so he simply smiled and nodded.

**Saitoh**

Saitoh nobly resisted the urge to pour a pitcher of water (or what was left of it) on Okita's melodramatic head when the twit collapsed, like some sort of swooning maiden in a black leather jacket and sporting a pony-tail, upon a table that had seen and smelt better days.

That didn't mean that he also nobly resisted the urge to imagine what Okita would look life after said baptism. Saitoh Hajime was no Bodhisattva, not by a long shot.

(Thank goodness) he thought as he sat down. Being "nice" all the time would be boring and a serious impediment to staying alive in this city, especially in his line of work.

As per usual the chair was too small. This was a common occurrence in Japanese men well past the two meter mark in height.

Oh, well. The food was worth it.

Saitoh gave Okita a side eye. While he'd never admit it, so was the company.

"So, what will you boys have? The usual?" the cook asked. Saitoh could smell the fresh cigarette smoke on the man and would have lit up himself if he'd not already gone through nearly half a pack earlier in the morning and the fact that Okita was in NO shape for exposure to smoke of any variety whatsoever.

"Aa," Saitoh said, nodding. He rarely had the opportunity to take a lunch, surviving instead on the glorious coffee sludge that made his world go round and corrosively ate through the bottom of coffee pots and mugs at a truly impressive rate.

"Sounds good," Okita said with a smile. Saitoh didn't buy it for a second. Okita was quiet. Too quiet. Normally he'd be spouting off at the mouth a million kilometers a minute and have the entire place in stitches and several ladies trying to vie for a space on his lap. The fact he'd failed to throw his arms around the cook and offer to marry the man on the spot if he but shared his soba sauce recipe made it clear that his hopes about this place helping Okita remember who he was had failed.

"And to drink?" The cook didn't bother writing anything down. When it came to these two regulars (even if one of them hadn't been for nearly a year), he didn't need to.

"A pot of coffee," Saitoh said, and totally meant it.

Okita asked for tea.

"Got it. Enough cold soba and tempura to put down a couple of sumo wrestlers after a fight, coming right up."

Saitoh watched as the cook ambled away. The old man was much like the restaurant he'd managed for nearly 40 years, worn, faded, a bit rough around the edges and of the decidedly good variety.

In his fight for sobriety over the past year, a battle that would last the rest of his life, Saitoh had learned the hard way that avoiding people and places that didn't respect or understand his need to absolutely and completely abstain from alcohol was necessary.

The old cook was aware of what Saitoh was trying to do and why. The reason for this was the man sitting directly across from him.

Saitoh looked over at Okita. Thankfully no longer coughing, his friend was looking curiously around the place, as if experiencing it for the first time.

(You remember nothing of this place...)

They'd come here many years ago, first as soldiers on leave and ravenous for anything but military rations. Time had passed, wars ended and they'd continued to come here as civilians, and then as police captains. Something tight began to form in Saitoh's throat and he looked away, focusing his attention on a rather suspicious smudge on the table that he began to attack with the elbow of his uniform.

(They came with us, eventually...)

Yaso had loved this place. Okita's wife hadn't, until she took a bite of the tempura and was hooked. As friends, husbands and parents, he and Okita had come here so many times. Unbidden, a recollection of Okita buying rounds for everyone to celebrate the news that he was going to be, after years of trying, a father and the cheers of joy that had gone up, Saitoh's voice included.

The memory changed, and now Saitoh could see in his mind's eye, an image of Okita bouncing Tsutomu on his knee and sneaking bites of noodles to the toddler, much to the dismay of said toddler's parents. That image faded and was replaced with one less clear and far more painful, one of Okita trying to force Saitoh to eat something...anything in the weeks and months after Yaso's murder and another of Okita sitting across from him, face ashen, his own wife and child gone, along with the laughter and joy that had been such an innate part of his nature for as long as Saitoh had known him.

Okita remembered nothing of this place and the people and experiences who'd transformed this dumpy hole in the wall to something else entirely.

The tightness in Saitoh's throat changed and began to burn.

**Okita**

The atmosphere had changed from light (as light as it could be considering Okita nearly lost a lung) to something far heavier, and Okita was fairly certain he was at fault. It was obvious this was a special place. After all, he had noticed the way Saitou had walked behind the counter, and if that wasn't enough then the easy manner the shop's owner had addressed them. "Oji-san", as Saitou had called him, had been truly happy to see Okita.

But Okita didn't know who he was. He couldn't remember, and Saitou knew it. Just as Okita couldn't hide his lapse in memory, Saitou could not hide his disappointment. Not from Okita, and that hurt.

Again he heard Dr. Sinister's words:

_Part of your rehabilitation is to remember who you are and what you are capable of doing._

Okita almost snorted, he was definitely capable of a lot he was sure. He just wasn't sure of the extent. He had nearly knocked his friend's head off. Speaking of which, why had he punched the man?

_Drug addicts tend not to have good stories . . . Perhaps that's why you are trying so hard not to remember..._

Was he doing this to himself? Was he purposefully torturing himself? Disappointing his friend?

Okita felt a rise of panic. He didn't even remember he had sisters . . . and what good was he to them? Was it safer for them to still think of him as gone? His throat tightened . . . and then he mentally slapped himself.

Twice.

With an actual shake of his head, Okita reached out and grabbed a pair of disposable chopsticks, the kind that never seemed to break cleanly, from a box at the end of the table.

He broke the chopsticks, and grunted in annoyance, he had simply broken one chopstick in half leaving a huge chunk of its upper half attached to its pair. He was glaring at the chopsticks, "You know, at the center they wouldn't even let us have chopsticks. Not after a patient tried to stick one up Kinoshita's nose . . . "

Suddenly Okita growled, and slammed the chopsticks down on the table. He knew that they were facing a difficult conversation, and as much as he wanted answers he was also afraid. He decided though that the silence had dragged on long enough, even if it had only been a few minutes, less than five, "So, Hajime, how are my sisters?" He asked in a voice that was a far cry from his usual cheeriness. "Maybe, they are better off not knowing that I am back. . . maybe you're better off keeping your distance too."

**Saitoh**

"Whoever the patient was," Saitoh said dryly as he pulled out a fresh set of chopsticks and set them down in front of Souji, "I hope he received some sort of commendation for acts benefiting the betterment of society."

The wooden table now had a dent in it after taking a frustrated blow. And while the question of how his friend had managed to do such a thing, to say nothing of the strange altercation in the rehab facility that needed answering, this was not the time for that.

"Though if the patient had murder on his mind," Saitoh snorted disdainfully, "attacking anything remotely close to the moron's brainless skull was a pointless endeavor."

Strong emotion rolled off of Okita's now narrow shoulders in waves, like tidal waters dashing violently against sharp, jagged rocks. Fear. Anger. Frustration. Despair. Saitoh could see and feel those strong feelings as they moved and swirled, angry, deep and eddy-like across the handsome face of his brother. While they were not linked through blood, their bond had been formed as blood had been spilt and was just as strong – perhaps stronger.

It would need to be, for the conversations that were to come.

"Your two older sisters, who are directly responsible for you being such a spoilt brat, were fine the last time I spoke with them. The eldest, Mitsu, is a sensible woman. She is married to an equally sensible man and lives in China. They have four children, two boys and two girls, all grown and shamelessly doted on by their half-brained uncle."

"Your other sister, Kin, is a lunatic, so it's clear that your madness is of the hereditary variety. She's always travelling, doing god knows what in god knows where and has a disturbing penchant for sending you highly inappropriate parcels through the mail," Saitoh rolled his eyes at the memory, "the least of which was a venomous Brazilian tarantula the size of a fucking dinner plate that she mailed directly to police headquarters, much to your delight and the horror of the poor mail clerk who was unfortunate enough to sign for the package."

Saitoh let that sink in for a moment as the waiter, Nitwit, managed to make it to the table and drop off the requested coffee and tea without incident, then skittered off nervously before the police officer could snap at him.

"As for that bullshit about me keeping my distance," Saitoh sneered at the idiocy of the idea, "it's not my fault that your scrambled-up excuse for a brain couldn't manage to remember anyone else who's remotely decent. Like it or not, Brat, you're stuck with me."

Saitoh poured a cup of coffee and took a long pull. It was hot and had the faintest hint of battery acid, which perfectly suited the caustic anger that had been building up all morning since he'd realized what Okita had been through.

Self-hate.

Self-doubt.

He could hear the insidious hints of these all too familiar things as they crept into Okita's weary voice and began to grow in his tired eyes. Amnesiac or not, Saitoh wasn't going to let them devour the pale man sitting across from him.

"Perhaps it's karma at work," Saitoh's deep voice had a mean edge to it as he drained the mug, letting the coffee scald his burning throat to the point he could almost bear it and set it down on the table that had seen better days, "after all, I couldn't get you out of my hair, no matter how hard I tried after my wife was murdered and I was hellbent on following her courtesy of alcohol poisoning."

Voice low and raw with pain, anger and cruel, unflinching honesty, Saitoh ground out the rest, "You may not remember, but I have two children, two boys, Souji, that lost their mother to violence and nearly lost their father to the bottle because he wasn't man enough to cope. My sister took my children from me and I was of half a mind to let her, but you refused to let that happen. You fought for Tsutomu and Tsuyoshi so they wouldn't be forgotten and you fought for me and with me so I wouldn't take the easy way out and leave those kids behind."

It wasn't kind, what he was doing, and certainly not fair. Saitoh didn't care. It was clear, painfully so, that the incompetent fuck-wits at the facility, rather that following their oaths as practitioners and trying to heal, had deeply harmed an innocent man instead.

"You've let pathetic fools fill your empty head up with lies and doubts and shadows about who you might be," Saitoh hissed, furious at the injustice of it all, "so whether you want me to or not, I will tell you exactly what sort of man you are; a good one, a man who unlike me, has never lost his honor. Nothing can or will be kept from you and by the end of it, you'll probably hate me for it, but it has to be done and I will be the one to do it."

**Okita**

Okita smiled as he listened to Saitou describe his sisters. He chuckled at the idea of one of them sending him a tarantula. He had to admit it was the kind of thing that would appeal to him, even now. He tried to dig up a memory, any memory of his family and he came up with nothing. So he devoured every word Saitou said.

He had to have faith that he would remember, eventually. Okita picked up the chopsticks Saitou had placed before him, just as the waiter came to deposit their drinks. Okita watched in amusement as Saitou glared at the poor boy, silently daring him to mess up, and Okita grinned as the boy ran back with his tail tucked between his legs. Poor boy.

Once the boy was gone, Saitou continued.

_". . . Like it or not, Brat, you're stuck with me."_

Okita chuckled, "Ah. My love. If you keep talking like that, I won't be able to hold myself back." Even though he joked, he laughed, there was a gaping hole in his chest, one that was making it hard to breathe. He nodded, letting Saitou know that he had heard him and understood. They were brothers and would get through this together. It was their version of sap.

And because he couldn't meet his friend's eyes, he eyed the coffee, breathing it in; this was not fresh coffee, but coffee that had cooked for far too long. He brought his eyes up to Saitou who raised an eyebrow, a silent dare against taking his precious coffee. Okita smirked. Coffee wasn't allowed at the center.

_"Perhaps it's karma at work . . ."_

He was about to test out how fast he could swipe the now empty mug from Saitou when his next words stopped him cold. All thoughts of trying out coffee forgotten as Saitou mentioned his lost wife.

He straightened up and looked at his friend directly, and saw in those eyes the pain and anger. Okita narrowed his eyes, and listened, all pretense of humour gone. This was not the time.

The morning's nightmare replayed itself as Okita watched Saitou race ahead of him. His heart was racing and fear was threatening to take hold. Okita saw the house, the familiar house, torn apart. And he saw his friend with his wife in his arms . . .

Okita brought himself back to the present and thought about what had just been revealed. Saitou didn't say it, alcoholic, but Okita wasn't stupid. And then, again, images raced through his mind of the very man before him face down on his desk, the same man barely standing, and another of the smell of alcohol so overpowering it would have made anyone else gag.

There was nothing for Okita to say, but then Saitou said the names, one name in particular that he had heard only this morning. Okita's eyes widened and his hands closed around the chopsticks with so much strength that they not only broke, but became dust.

He leaned forward. Tsutomu! He was alive! His heart was racing.

"The cubs!" He choked out, his voice full of emotion. His heart racing with relief and amazement that he remembered.

As Saitou continued with assurances that Okita was a good man, he looked down at the chopsticks, and frowned. There went another pair. Still, Okita trusted the man even if he did lie about crabs. Bastard, he thought fondly.

Okita smirked, and he chuckled, "Hate you? I think it's too late for that. But tell me you're paying for the meal and I might forgive you." He dusted his hands off, and grabbed another pair of chopsticks this time keeping it on the table. "And, I need to hear it. I need to know what I left behind."

Then wanting to take the conversation back to a certain cub, he said, "You know, I remember your cub."

Okita's smile was fond. He paused for a moment as he remembered a toddler wobbling towards him, and then a shadow came over his handsome features. Okita frowned as things started fitting together as he was again reminded of the nightmare from earlier. This time though it was in sharper focus. He remembered a terrified little boy clutching a baby, his pants soiled, his entire body shaking . . .

Okita took a deep breath, and looked his friend squarely in the eyes, reminding himself that the boy was alive and he had to be well, but still. "How are the boys?"

As he asked he wondered, where the hell he had been in the past year?

**Saitoh**

_The Cubs!_

(Dumbass…why didn't you bring up the boys in the first place?)

One in particular.

New emotions, better ones, were coming to bear. Okita's response was proof of it.

_You know, I remember your cub. _

This was a starting place, a memory – a critical face with a name that his friend could attach to and build others from. A measure of relief stopped up the cold sting of a disappointment that up until a moment ago, bringing Okita to his favorite haunt, hadn't elicited a damn thing.

_How are the boys?_

Saitoh fished out his personal mobile and accessed a secure, encrypted app from the New Meiji school system. Due to a history of kidnappings and other systematic violence levied against the most innocent members of society, both children and their parents were registered along with any authorized caregivers or security details. Without this registration on file and active, picking up, accessing educational records or acting on behalf of a child in the educational system was strictly prohibited. These were the only images of his boys that he carried with him.

The large mobile console now contained two images, one of Tsutomu and the other of Tsuyoshi, both in their school uniforms. His eldest, much like his father, HATED having his picture taken and with rare exceptions looked completely put out by the process, his youthful features schooled into an expression somewhere between bored out of his mind and about to bite someone's head off. Tsuyoshi on the other hand, practically beamed happiness in every single image taken of him. While both boys strongly resembled their father, down to the build, black hair and eye color, the youngest had inherited his mother's laugh and smile.

"See for yourself," Saitoh handed the mobile to Okita. "Tsutomu will be turning 8 shortly. Tsuyoshi's birthday isn't until this summer. He'll be five."

"As for how they are doing…" Saitoh thought about the question for a second, "both are exceeding academic and athletic performance standards, and generally speaking, are well mannered and responsible children, though Tsuyoshi is far too gregarious for his own good and has recently taking up bouncing when excited."

Saitoh shrugged, slightly baffled, still not quite sure what to make of having such an exuberant child in his household.

"The boys live with me now," Saitoh continued quietly, unaccustomed to speaking about his children in a public venue, "and while I have maintained complete sobriety for the last year, and have done my best to ensure that their needs have been met, I have much to learn regarding parenting to say nothing of trying to make things right with the boys."

He paused, and then added, "Tsutomu is struggling, Souji, and is still trying to come to terms with what's happened over the course of the last three years. He's missed you terribly, through for the life of me I can't imagine why," Saitoh rolled his eyes, "and will be deeply relieved to know that you're alive." This was a massive understatement along the lines of saying that he was fond of coffee, disliked the press and was head over combat boots for a certain grey-eyed attorney.

Speaking of said attorney…

"I believe that your renewed presence and the stability and love that his new mother will provide is going to make life easier for the boy."

Then, slowly and deliberately, Saitoh ran a finger across the table then held up the digit, covered with chopstick dust and slivers. "So, you need to figure out how to control yourself. Tsutomu needs you back in his life and I suppose that I'd better introduce you to the woman who will shortly be my wife. It's a good thing she's a prosecutor with the DOJ and is used to dealing with all sorts of unsavory bastards."

He then flicked his finger, sending the stuff right into Okita's face. "As it stands right now, one physical misstep on your part could seriously injure or kill either of them. So get your shit together."

Moments later, the nitwit returned bearing a metric ton of noodles and tempura, more skitterish than a shooting instructor with a room filled with farsighted, cross-eyed cadets. Okita was gracious in his response. Saitoh made an attempt, but still sent the kid running. Oh, well. Such was life.

Speaking of said existence...

_I need to know what I left behind. _

Saitoh studied the hungry man sitting across the table. While the full extent of Okita's amnesia was still unknown, the fact his former partner had failed to ask how a handful of people were doing, one woman in particular, didn't bode well. Being the bearer of bad news was part and parcel of being a New Meiji cop. That didn't mean that Saitoh was eager to play fill in the blanks with a man who'd clearly been through hell the past few months. Truth be told, he was dreading the unavoidable conversation. Gods, what human being wouldn't considering what had to be said?

(A promise is a promise...) While the concept of the principle would ever remain sound, there were times that the application was a serious pain in the ass. This was one of those times.

Saitoh reached over and snagged the paper wrapped disposable chopsticks, broke them neatly, and resolutely began to eat. Okita needed the food.

**Okita**

Okita took the phone and looked at the photos of the two boys. There it was, photographic proof that they were alive. They were so much older than he remembered. The boy from his memory had been four, terrified, and forced to witness something no one should have witnessed.

This boy in the picture was so much older. You could see it in his eyes. Okita clenched his teeth at the pain, so many lost memories and so much time lost. To what? Tsuyoshi had been young, and luckily he seemed to have been spared the mental scars.

Okita was still taking in the photo while Saitou said,

_"…both are exceeding academic and athletic performance standards, and . . .are well mannered and responsible children, though Tsuyoshi . . . has recently taken up bouncing. . ."_

"Are you reading a police report?" Okita chuckled at his friend. He then mimicked Saitou's tone and manner, "exceeding academic and athletic performance standards."

Okita shook his head, and then grinned at the idea of a tiny Saitou bouncing about. "Bouncing? There are worse things out there. He could start smoking." Okita gave his friend a cheeky smile.

But what Saitou said next wiped the smile away. It was hard to hear Saitou talk about his struggles with alcoholism and losing his boys. Where had they gone?

He was still digesting the news when what he said next hit him hard. His cub, Tsutomu, was struggling. Part of that was his fault. He had disappeared, and that had to be hard to handle for someone so young. Hell, it had to be hard for the man sitting across from him.

He felt his eyes sting. His cub missed him. Okita couldn't imagine that he had ever taken the faith the young boy had put in him lightly. Even without his memories he knew that this was someone important.

There was so much, so much information and even more gaps. Saitou had lost the boys. Did he have the boys when Okita had disappeared? Had he started the trek to sobriety when Okita had been around?

Okita narrowed his eyes, and handed Saitou his phone back. With that simple gesture he fought the urge to rub his arms, look at his own scars, and wonder at his own "addiction".

At this point it was obvious to Okita that he had a family, a role, a support system. While it was comforting, it was also harder to believe he had ever given into drugs. Especially after seeing his brother fight so hard. So what the fuck had happened?

Another mystery to solve.

Just then Saitou brought up a very important point. Okita was going to have to learn to control his strength. To do that he was going to have to see just what that strength was, and he was going to have to do it quietly.

Okita faked a sneeze as Saitou blew bits of chopsticks at him. The man glared in return. Okita grinned. Still replaying the words, _"Tsutomu needs you back in his life. . ."_

Okita's mind was running at full speed that he barely registered one simple fact, something Saitou had mentioned twice now but in passing.

He waited. He waited as their food was brought to the table, as Saitou studied him, and as Saitou started eating.

He sat patiently watching his friend slurp his noodles.

Okita blinked as his friend was obviously in deep thought. Then he couldn't wait anymore. "OY!"

Saitou raised an eyebrow and looked up at his friend, and slurped the noodles he had started.

"You can't just do that!" Okita started to slam his hand on the table only to stop, look at the offending hand, and then lightly place it on the table. "You can't just mention that you're getting a new wife!"

"I hope she has experience dealing with unsavory bastards. She's going to need it with you! Wolf!"

Okita continued his rant, "Just how long have I been gone? Did I meet her? What happened the last time we saw each other? "

He paused only to breathe, "I am so confused."

**Two Wolves of New Meiji have reunited. This is a long story, folks, so buckle up!**

Also, while you are reading, please take a moment and leave us a review? We love writing and appreciate the feedback!

As always - thanks for stopping by!

MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh)

Legalronin (Okita)


	4. Chapter 4

**A Welcome Wagon of One - Chapter 4 **

A Gumi Reloaded Story

Written by Legalronin (Okita and other supporting characters)

and MightyMightyMunson (Saitoh and other supporting characters)

"It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces."

― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

This story takes place directly after _**Release to the Wild**_.

After this story, the two Mibu Wolves split up. Saitoh's story continues in _**The Wolf at Work, Part II (or It's Hard to Keep a Dead Woman Down)**_. Okita ends up at Genzai Independent Living Center (and has no idea the madness he's stepping into..) in the story, _**The First Day**_.

If you enjoyed this story, please show the love with a review! If there's something you would like to see story wise, please share!

**Saitoh**

Saitoh snagged some more noodles, slurping them thoughtfully as Okita huffed and puffed but thankfully didn't knock the table down.

_I am so confused…_

"Feh. You were an addlepated moron before you lost your marbles, so not much has changed," Saitoh muttered, as he resolutely set his chopsticks down and finished the coffee in his cup. Since the normal lunch tsunami of noodle crazed customers was still a trickle, there was time and a well needed measure of privacy to continue on with the conversation.

"You never met Tokio," Saitoh said quietly (not in this life or the last one). In the Meiji Era, his best friend had already succumbed to Tuberculosis long before Saitoh and Tokio had married and in this one, Okita had been missing and presumed dead when their paths had crossed again.

"We knew each other many years ago and were only recently reacquainted."

Saitoh Gatotsu'd a hapless tempura battered prawn, drowned it in dipping sauce and then ate it, chewing slowly as he wondered if the strange continuance of past lives meeting present was fate or karma as he let his friend wait.

(Once these questions are answered, the heavier and harder discussion would be required.)

He still wasn't sure how to put into words the magnitude of loss that his friend had experienced, and now in light of his memory loss would experience again, but he was determined that he would honor his promise as best he could, just as Okita would do the same if the situation was reversed.

"_Is that it?" That's all you're going to say?" _

Enjoying the man's discomfort, Saitoh merely shrugged as another prawn met the same fate.

"What more is there to be said?"

In hindsight, Saitoh would concede that his response had been, perhaps, not quite the answer Okita had been looking for. Before Saitoh could pour himself another cup of coffee, the scrawny bastard had taken the coffee pot hostage and was demanding additional details.

"Goddammit, Souji, give me the coffee pot!" Saitoh growled, half tempted to drag the impertinent little shit back to the rehabilitation facility and dump him onto Kinoshita's lap.

Okita coyly jiggled the handle of the hostage, sending the slightly bitter aroma of strongly brewed coffee wafting upwards and into his friend's sensitive nose before pouring himself a cup, "Start talking, Tinkerbell, or you'll not get a drop more."

"You'll pay for this, Brat," Saitoh warned, his narrow eyes glittering with malice.

"I'll have coffee in my system, so I don't care," Okita lifted the cup up, as in salute, took a sip and then sighed with contentment.

"Remember that when I abandon you at some third-rate sewage treatment plant rather than the independent living center," Saitoh groused and then began to speak.

"A few weeks ago Tokio was transferred here from the main DOJ office in Yokohama, courtesy of her idiot brother," Saitoh's face darkened as he thought about the details of the transfer and how the head of the national department of justice had sent his sister on a mission with far too little support and training, a mistake that had nearly resulted in Tokio being murdered less than two weeks after arriving on her new assignment.

The irony that the suicide mission was the catalyst for bringing Tokio back into his life was not lost on him. Still of two minds where Morinusuke was concerned, Saitoh wasn't sure whether to hug the man (extremely unlikely) or hit him squarely in the face (more likely, yet strategically unsound) for being such a dumbass, so he settled for a shrug and decided that his response upon meeting the attorney would be somewhere in between.

"We ran into each other at a café and ended up in a gun fight with several syndicate members and a certain red-haired cop killer you may have seen in the news recently," Saitoh smirked as he described the pitched battle and the parts that he and Tokio had played, "you would have appreciated her skills."

He sure the hell did and in more ways than one.

"I know that I'll regret saying this, but you're somewhat to blame for my pending matrimonial state," Saitoh said slyly as he picked up his chopsticks and snagged a perfectly battered piece of okra, "it's a damn shame that you stole my coffee or I would have seriously considered inviting you to the wedding."

**Okita**

Okita poured himself a second cup of coffee, and gave his "best friend" a flat look. The bastard was having fun. He was enjoying having the upper hand, but he supposed he should be grateful, giving out personal information was not Saitou's strong suit.

That didn't mean that Okita was going to forgive him anytime soon. Okita picked up his chopsticks, broke them cleanly this time, and stole the sweet potato straight from Saitou's chopsticks in a move that was impossible to see. That should remind the man of whom he was dealing with.

"Let me see if I understand," Okita took a bite and chewed slowly before continuing, "you met her days ago?" Okita studied his stolen piece of tempura, and threw his eyes up at the other man, "She's pregnant isn't she?"

Then in a lazy drawl he said, "I don't know if I want to be part of something so . . . indecent."

Okita chuckled, "Who would have imagined Saitou Hajime having a slip like that. I am sure you appreciated her skills . . ."

Before Saitou could take his chopsticks and stab Okita through the throat he quickly added, "Mah mah, I am only kidding. But seriously, what's the rush? How is that my fault?"

Despite what he said Okita was sure this wasn't a spur of the moment decision, that wasn't Saitou. Of that he knew. The way the man spoke, the woman was even more proof that this wasn't a simple fling that had forced him to take responsibility. Was she really pregnant?

Okita finished his sweet potato, and began eating his noodles. Saitou was getting married, the cubs were alive and practically grown, he himself had been missing a year, his sisters were well … Despite the gap filling, it only made Okita angry and bitter. It did little to really answer the larger questions. And then there was the aching hole in his chest, a premonition that there was more to come.

"When can I see the boys? Can I meet her?" He didn't look at brother, instead choosing to focus on his food, after all he was still an unknown.

**Saitoh**

_She's pregnant, isn't she? _

Saitoh laughed. As laughs went, his was rather harsh, dry and sounded as if a wolf was coughing up something distasteful. Still, it was a laugh and it counted, especially considering how rarely he did it.

"Moron. I've not slept with her yet," Saitoh said drolly. He'd only admit such a thing to his best friend, "and when it comes to indecency, you've been happily floating down the gutter of life since I met you, so you have no place to talk."

"As for the rush…" Saitoh's laugh died in the back of his throat as he thought about all Tokio had been through in such a short time. He looked down at the table for a moment as the all too familiar feelings of white-hot fury and the deepest fear he'd known as a man did battle with one another, "there's a syndicate hit out on her, Souji, one of the worst I've seen since joining the force. When I ran into her at the café, she was already being followed by sex-traffickers. Less than 36 hours later, a car bomb nearly took her out and her home was similarly rigged to go up the minute she set foot on the property."

Saitoh looked up, steely determination fighting to rise above the fray, "I lost Yaso to those fucking syndicate bastards and I'll be damned if I lose Tokio as well. Besides," Saitoh snagged another piece of fried okra and ate it, "at the rate things are going on the force, she may end up outliving me, which isn't saying much."

He shrugged. There was no drama or pity in the statement, just cold hard facts. "If I end up getting killed in the line of duty, the boys need a parent, someone who loves them and would never view them as an unwanted burden so we're joining forces, quite literally, to even out the odds a bit."

Saitoh snagged the coffee pot back and poured himself a cup, pleased to see that he was getting most of the bitter dregs, "as for your complicity in this domestic adventure, I'm not sure if you remember or not, when we first met in the Army. We both experienced a strong sense of being re-acquainted rather than newly met. You had a bat shit crazy theory as to why but in time, it made sense. It's the same way with her, though more intense in nature."

Saitoh took a drink, savoring the acid-bitterness, "Since you and I haven't managed to strangle each other yet, despite you being a royal pain in the ass," he smirked and gave the man a quasi-salute with the cooling cup of Joe, "Tokio and I decided to go for it, while we had an opportunity to do so and will figure the rest out."

_When can I see the boys? Can I meet her? _

Saitoh flicked Okita on the forehead, "Idiot. How can you come to the wedding if you haven't already met the bride?" His friend for all his wild and wooly ways could be rather thick at times, "as for the boys, the sooner the better, perhaps tomorrow if you feel up to it and are confident you won't tear the house down around you."

**Okita**

Okita lips quirked into a true smile as his friend laughed. It was a good moment, and one oddly filled with peace. However, his smile turned sly when Saitou admitted to his current celibacy. He said nothing though, instead choosing to give his friend a meaningful look.

His smile quickly turned into a frown as he continued to listen and as he finished his noodles. He gave one final slurp before sighing in contentment. He threw his head back and looked up at the worn wooden ceiling, crossed his arms, and said, "You won't die just yet. You're too damn stubborn."

"Plus, you have me." He straightened up in his seat and looked his friend in the eyes, "You're not alone. Tell me what you need."

Then with a smile, "You'll have to explain that more fully one day. Our first meeting in the army but for now . . . " He nodded and left it at that. "I will of course be at your disposal tomorrow."

He would have nodded or made some comment about bringing the house down, but suddenly his body was bent forward over the table with wracking coughs. As his lungs tried to escape his too thin body, he snagged back the coffee pot, but it only made him cough more and dribble coffee on to the table.

Saitou rose and began to beat his friend on the back.

"Ow!" Cough. "Stop that!" Cough. "You're not h-helping!"

After a particularly rough pat, "Consider it pay back for stealing my coffee."

Okita's cough finally gave way, and he glared at the taller man, "You won't have to worry about the syndicate! I'll kill you myself."

Saitou resumed his seat, "Feh. It won't be the first time you tried or the last."

"You're just lucky I don't want to explain to the boys how I killed their father."

Then cheering up, he leaned forward, "Oy, what about the last time we met?"

**Saitoh**

"You _will_ see a doctor about that damn cough of yours," Saitoh said severely as he poured Okita a glass of water and shoved it towards the idiot in respiratory distress, "I'm of half a mind to brain you with the coffee pot, but will refrain as it will waste what little coffee is remaining."

Glaring at his thick-skulled friend, Saitoh grabbed a napkin and started scrubbing at the table. There were dribbles on it and he hated dribbles.

Once the table was dribble free and Okita wasn't huffing and wheezing like an overtasked yak, Saitoh leaned back in back in his chair.

"The last time we met was on a Friday evening, about a week before you disappeared. In your infinite wisdom, you decided that it was a good idea to try and set me up on a blind date," Saitoh's expression was sour enough to curdle tofu, "to say things didn't go well is an understatement of epic proportions."

For the next few minutes, Saitoh recounted the disastrous evening. He'd gone to the now burned out and bullet ridden Sunshine Café, looking for Okita and had found instead a woman waiting for him. She'd been kind, a widow who had lost her husband a few years prior, and pretty. His response to her had been anything but. He'd verbally savaged the poor woman, using language that would have made a seasoned soldier wince and in anger, he'd swept the café booth with his arm, sending everything crashing on the floor and shattering.

There were few aspects of Saitoh's conduct that he could honestly say he was ashamed of, but the memory of terrifying an innocent woman, one who was no stranger to the loss of losing a spouse, and sending her running from the café, weeping, was right at the top, second only to how he'd treated Okita in the aftermath.

"You came to the house, later that night, mad as hell for the way I'd treated your friend," Saitoh said flatly, "by the time you let yourself in I was thoroughly intoxicated and spoiling for a fight."

His recounting of the fight was painfully accurate and pitiless. Initially, Okita had tried to calm things down and reason with him. Far too drunk to engage in polite conversation or critical thinking, Saitoh had attacked his friend with such savagery that Okita had been forced to defend himself, until he too lost his temper and had returned blow for blow and then some.

The fight, as hard and brutal as either of them had experienced in the course of their violent careers, had resulted in a living room and kitchen that resembled a war zone, he and Okita suffering a number of minor injuries and a couple of serious ones, and worst of all, the destruction of a friendship, one that Saitoh hadn't fully appreciated until it was gone.

"When I sobered up, it was too late," Saitoh admitted, regret and shame over what had happened palpable, "a few days after the fight, you disappeared on your way home from your shift. Watanabe was able to pull security footage of you entering the elevator and going down two floors, then the cameras went out, not only in the elevator, but the whole police complex as well."

Saitoh shook his head, "forensics scrubbed every square millimeter of that elevator for evidence so that we could find you. Considering that the elevator was destroyed and covered with blood, hair and a few knocked out teeth, they had plenty to work with. DNA belonging to four men, three with syndicate ties and all with military backgrounds equivalent to ours, was found. The only evidence you left behind was your briefcase, mobile and wallet, all fully intact as if you'd merely forgotten to take them with you."

Saitoh finished his coffee, now cold, and tried to ignore the all-too-familiar burning sensation that was creeping up the back of his throat, "You put up one hell of a fight, but in the end, it didn't matter. You and the perpetrators of the assault vanished, as if you'd been all swallowed up. Watanabe spent months tracking dead ends online. Yamamoto pulled every favor he had on the streets trying to cough up any leads and Itou worked the legal channels, and to this day, still holds the record for search warrant requests in association with your disappearance. Hell, there were even a handful of meter maids who were hellbent on helping out."

Okita's loss had not only been a deep personal blow, but one that shook the Criminal Investigations Department and many other divisions in the DOJ. Okita had been liked and trusted and had served many times as a bridge between departments when ego and infighting threatened to derail an investigation.

"The active investigation ended three months after you vanished for a complete and utter lack of evidence. Karen and I kept looking for you even after a death certificate had been issued in absentia."

Saitoh didn't mention that Tsutomu had tried to help as well and had tried to sneak out one night armed with a flashlight and the toy bokken Okita had bought the child for his birthday so that he could find his missing uncle and bring him back home. Hearing his boy sob himself to sleep for months had added anguish to the already nightmarish reality of losing his friend who'd fought so hard to keep Saitoh's sanity and family together in the aftermath of Yaso's death and his descent into alcoholism.

"Your sisters did everything possible to find you as well. They hired PI's, took out agency adds. Hell, the nutty one kept going to some wild-eyed sham of a psychic who claimed she could contact you from the great beyond," Saitoh's voice became rough as he thought about Okita's older sisters. They'd been frantic, the eldest nearly struck down with grief as it became clear that Okita wasn't coming back and was likely dead.

"They asked me to take care of what you left behind," Saitoh said quietly. He'd talked more in the last half hour than he usually did over the course of a few days, "I packed up your belongings. There's a box I brought in the car and the rest of your things are in storage at my house. There's a bank account in your name that I set up…just in case."

Saitoh looked over at his friend, wondering what Okita thought of him after such a recounting, "I can't undo what occurred and refuse to make excuses for my appalling conduct. Even if you don't remember any of this, your instincts do, somehow, and your actions this morning were more than justified."

**Okita**

Okita waved away Saitou's concern through the wheezing, "I think I have an appointment, or I have to set one up when I get to the living center. Something like that . . ."

He grinned as he gulped down the water, but any cheer he had felt earlier disappeared as the atmosphere in the shop changed drastically.

He could tell that whatever came next was not going to be easy for his friend to talk about, and as he listened he could see why.

As Saitou spoke, Okita showed no emotion. Instead he sat back with his arms crossed, his fingers digging into his biceps, the tempura temporarily forgotten. For his part, he remembered nothing, but he could imagine what a fight like that would have been like. It wouldn't have been pretty.

The idea that his friend would have frightened a woman was further proof of how badly Yaso's death had affected the man. As if Okita really needed more proof, but it also showed how . . . amazing? miraculous? impossible? hard to accept? Saitou's impending marriage to Tokio was.

It also made him extremely curious to meet the woman, and he wondered what the boys thought of their soon to be mother.

At least, the man was making progress in the right direction even if it was rushed. He was daring to hope and that was something.

Okita hated that he had been gone, that his disappearance had caused such a disturbance. He narrowed his eyes, he had disappeared without a trace, that was not something just anyone could pull off. He could feel the anger start to boil, his gripped tightened as he thought, Dr. Sinister, how did you do it? Why?

His heart broke as he heard about not only his sister's efforts but also everyone's. Whoever had done this would pay. Right now, his only lead was Dr. Sinister.

He wondered whether he should reach out to his sisters. Part of him wanted to wait until he understood more of what was going on, but the other part wanted to ease their suffering, his too if he was honest.

It was time for him to address his friend. He could tell that it wasn't a pleasant memory, and it went without saying that whatever feelings Saitou had used to push Okita away they were now long gone.

He wouldn't have picked him up otherwise. Okita didn't think less of the man, he couldn't and wouldn't.

Still what he said was, "You're paying for dinner. Even if I have money." His voice was level and gave nothing away. "I suppose as far as apologies goes that's the best I'll get out of you."

**Saitoh**

"You stole my coffee and still have a semi-functioning throat," Saitoh growled, "if that's not an act of contrition then I don't know what is."

"It's nothing compared to bearing your company."

Saitoh smirked.

Okita ran his hand over his too-thin face. "There's a woman you haven't brought up, isn't there?"

The smirk shattered and a pall settled over the small table.

Saitoh sat there for a moment, then stiffly stood, grabbed the nearly empty coffee pot and walked back to the counter where the nitwit was hiding and the cook was enjoying a pre-lunch rush cigarette break.

Quiet words were exchanged. The cook nodded and the nitwit hurried behind the counter and grabbed something.

A moment later, Saitoh returned to the still slightly dingy table with a full pot of fresh coffee. He filled Okita's cup, then carefully set the coffee pot by his friend. When he sat back down, Okita was eyeing him, clearly worried, his too-thin face paling.

"Yes, there is," Saitoh said quietly, "her name is Arina. She was your wife."

Okita's reaction was not quite what Saitoh had expected, but was gut wrenching nonetheless.

"She was a doctor, a damn fine one, and one of the best women either of us have ever known," Saitoh paused, then forced himself to continue, "she died six years ago, Souji, shortly after giving birth to your daughter, Aoi."

**Okita**

Okita felt his body turn cold as his heart wrenched painfully. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He had had a wife. A wife he couldn't really remember, a wife that had died giving birth to his child. He couldn't breathe.

Suddenly the air came rushing back to him threatening to choke him. He smiled, humorlessly, "I was married?"

He, the flirt, had been married. It seemed almost impossible.

He tried to remember the woman that he had seen earlier in a flash memory, the one he had danced with, the woman that he must have shared a life with. All he could remember was disappointing her as she asked him to join her on the other side while he lay unconscious in the rehab center.

But, how was it possible that he hadn't even remembered her name? That he couldn't remember more? He remembered Saitou. He remembered the cubs. Yet, his own wife had disappeared with the rest of his memories. Not just her but apparently a daughter as well.

In a voice that did not sound like his he asked, "And . . ?" He paused, unsure, even more afraid of the answer, "And my daughter?"

He ran his hands against his forearms, not really aware that he was doing it. A wife . . . a daughter . . .

Slowly anger started to replace his shock, and his eyes flashed. His chest constricted painfully, and for the first time in months he thought maybe this was all too much. How could he not remember?

**Saitoh**

A few minutes earlier…

"Oh, no…" Kurihara groaned, "what does he want this time?"

Irritated that his sister's cousin's nephew was interrupting what would certainly be the last smoking break before the lunch rush, the cook glanced up at the kid, of half a mind to tell him off. The reprimand died on his lips when he saw Saitoh coming back to the service counter, specially the expression on the police officer's narrow face.

Instinctively, his focus shifted to the other police officer, a good man that he'd thought dead. Okita was sitting rigidly at the table. He was pale. Half-starved by the looks of it and frightened.

"Oi, what is it?"

While the cook had many patrons he was fond of, very few of them had been around for as long as the two men sitting at the back of the table and none of them had been through so much. Both Okita and Saitoh had helped him on more than one occasion, twice when his noodle shop had been burglarized and once when a syndicate was trying to force him into paying exorbitant "protection" fees.

"Ojisan, I need some more coffee," Saitoh said quietly, trying to come up with a strategy, struggling to think of a way to lessen the blow.

"Sure thing, Kid," the cook motioned for Kurihara to go get one of the pots what were freshly brewing, "what's wrong with Okita? He looks like shit and I swear, when I tried talking to him it was as if he didn't even recognize me."

"He doesn't," Saitoh said tersely. Quickly, as there was no time to spare and no place for histrionics, the Major quickly filled the cook in on what he needed to know and why his assistance was required.

"Oh, shit," The cigarette dropped from the cook's half opened mouth, "not even his wife?"

Saitoh shook his head.

"Oh, shit," The cook motioned for Kurihara to hurry and bring the pot of coffee over. Gods, the kid really was a nitwit.

"Here," he handed the steaming coffee pot over to the tall officer.

"Thank you," Saitoh said and turned, walking back towards the table where Okita was sitting.

(Kami-sama three times over!)

The cook frowned and wiped his hands on his apron. He thought about the matter for a moment, then ambled out from behind the service counter and over to the restaurant door where he turned off the neon "OPEN" sign and turned the dingy laminated hours placard over so the read, "WE'RE CLOSED".

It wasn't much. Hell, it wasn't near enough for what was happening, but it was the best he could do. He'd lost his wife to cancer three years prior and even with foreknowledge of her impending death, the blow he'd suffered when she'd left him alone for the first time in nearly fifty years, was still heavy on his shoulders and hard to bear more often than not. Both Saitoh and Okita knew what it was like to lose their better halves. He'd seen them go through it, suffer, grieve and in Saitoh's case, damn well nearly kill himself.

(Dammit, it's not fair…) Life in New Meiji rarely was.

Ambling back to the kitchen, the cook stole a glance over at the small table in the back of the noddle house. Dimly lit, the old table and two chairs who had seen much better days were being witness to a conversation that shouldn't be happening in the first place.

Okita's back was to him, so all the cook could see was Saitoh speaking quietly. His face was set and hard, posture as stiff as a board, but the acerbic cop's eyes were sad. The fact that the proud man had even asked for help was serious in and of itself.

The cook looked away as the memory of seeing the boys come into the restaurant for the first time, wearing military fatigues, hungry and thrilled to be on leave. Another memory, a happy one, of Okita bringing his sweet wife in for noodles. Arina had craved his garlic shrimp noodles throughout her pregnancy and Okita had joyously made sure that the love of his life had noodles coming out of her ears. He'd been so proud, so damn excited to be a father.

One last memory demanded recognition. Okita had come here after. After he'd lost everything. His wife. His baby. He'd come alone, white faced and barely able to walk and had sat down, put his head in his hands and sobbed. Saitoh had come in a few minutes later, face haggard and sat down by his friend, his expression and posture nearly identical now as it had been before.

The cook swore and brushed his gnarled hands over his eyes. They were stinging. Perhaps from the chile peppers he'd been cutting up? Yes, that had to be it.

"What's wrong?" Kurihara asked.

"Nothing, Kid. Least nothin' we can do. C'mon," the cook muttered as he took the boy by the arm and led him into the kitchen, so that the two men left behind had a measure of privacy.

_And my daughter?_

There was a reason that every police squadron had an officer trained and equipped to handle the horrendous conversations that were a part of the work that Saitoh and Okita had dedicated their lives to. Okita had been the crisis officer on his team and had always shown skill and compassion when addressing the next of kin. Okita knew how to comfort, how to stabilize and de-escalate. Hell, the brat was even was comfortable giving hugs, for fuck's sake.

There was also a reason that Saitoh had NEVER, not once, been assigned to this area of specialization. He wasn't kind. Lacked any sense of timing or sensitivity. Avoided hugging like it was one of the more voracious STD's.

(I shouldn't be doing this..) Karen would do a better job. Tokio would know what to say and how to say it. Hell, the nitwit who'd scampered off into the kitchen would likely have more sense than he did at the moment.

Saitoh hesitated for a moment, then reached out and put his hand on Okita's shoulder.

"She died. Three days later." He had been there beside Okita when the wrenching decision had been made. In his grief, Okita had not been able to bear watching his daughter be taken off life support, so Saitoh had stayed in the room, bearing witness to a desperately short life ending while Yaso had stayed outside with Souji and held the man as he wept, his heart completely broken.

Saitoh tightened his grip on Okita, as if it would help. It wouldn't. Nothing would.

"Near the end of the pregnancy, Arina developed severe eclampsia. There was no warning, Souji, nothing you or anyone could have done to prevent what happened. She suffered a massive stroke and then a heart attack not long after being admitted to the hospital."

He continued, hating that the rest of what he had to say was even worse, "Aoi hung on for three days. She was a fighter. You fought to keep her here but she'd suffered severe oxygen deprivation and it was too much."

"I'm sorry," Saitoh's voice broke.

**Okita**

Okita wanted to snap, hurry the hell up. The pause before Saitoh answered, was unbearable. Then Saitoh placed a hand on his shoulder, and he knew the answer wasn't good. Okita gritted his teeth, but nothing could prepare him for what he heard. He knew before the words had been spoken, but hearing them made it all so final.

The baby had died. **HIS** baby.

And he didn't remember. He didn't remember what must have been a terrible time in his life. It felt like such a dishonor to the lives that had been lost.

"I'm sorry," Saitoh's voice broke.

". . . I see," was all Okita could say. They sat there in silence for several long minutes.

Suddenly, he stood up unable to sit any longer. He walked to the entrance, saw the car, and was about to step outside when he turned on his heels and marched into the tiny bathroom in the back. He said nothing to his friend and brother.

Okita shut the door and leaned his forehead against it.

The bathroom smelled strongly of cleaning agents, but he didn't care. It was so small that there was barely room for the western toilet. He didn't care.

He couldn't sit there, and face Saitoh. Face the expectations of what he should be feeling.

He should be devastated, he should be heartbroken, and he was . . . in a way. Mostly though he was ashamed, frustrated, and nothing could fill the void.

He went through every memory he had, every dream he had had. How could he have forgotten Arina? The baby Aoi?

No, all he remembered was the war. How could he forget those that had meant so much. He knew he must have loved them. He heard his heart racing and felt tears threaten to spill, but he ignored it. Instead he focused on the anger that was threatening to engulf him. It was easier.

He breathed in deeply, and wished he hadn't. The smell in the bathroom was that toxic.

Okita allowed himself a few more seconds to grieve. He was sure of one thing, he was no user. If he had not turned to drugs six years ago after such a loss then there was no way he turned to drugs a year ago. He backed away from the door, and pulled up his sleeves.

He ran his hands against the scars. He still had a family. He had had a wife and daughter. Tears started to stream down his face. Losing them again was nothing compared to the shame of not remembering them.

He sighed, went to the tiny sink next to the toilet, and washed his face. He took one look in the mirror, shook his head, and walked out of the bathroom resuming his seat at the table once more.

At least there was coffee.

**Saitoh**

(I wonder what's going on?)

Kurihara couldn't figure out for the life of him why the noodle house was closed. The lunch hour was nearly upon them, the busiest (and most lucrative) time of day.

(There's nothing happening!)

Not wanting to incur the notice of the tall policeman, the new waiter didn't cross the threshold of the kitchen and the serving area behind the counter. He was curious, sure, but not entirely stupid.

(I wonder what those crazy men are talking about?)

Clearly, it was of little import as there were no raised voices, nor signs of anger, happiness, or anything else. Kurihara was surprised that the tall officer was the one doing most of the talking, and that wasn't saying much. The shorter man, who seemed a far nicer fellow than his companion (even if he struggled with the basics of drinking anything in liquid form, bless him) was silent, save for what appeared to be two words and then a long period of silence afterward.

The young man couldn't make out what those two words were, nor could he figure out why the shorter man jumped to his feet, wandered over to the entrance as he if was going to leave the noodle shop and then turned and walked back and went into the bathroom.

(Did they have a fight?)

He'd never seen such a strange argument if they were. Then of course, he'd not ever dealt with such strange men.

The man the cook had called Saitoh glanced back when the other man, Okita, if he remembered correctly shut the bathroom door. For a moment Kunisha thought he saw some emotion flicker across the severe man's narrow face. Perhaps it was worry, perhaps something akin to sorrow? Kurihara wasn't sure and whatever it was that the very tall man was feeling, it vanished faster than the noodle house's most popular meal, leaving behind a severe, unpleasant expression that the waiter felt was far more appropriate for a jerk who'd proved himself not only to be rude and demanding, but lacking any sort of sympathy.

(Dammit!)

While he admired the stoic manner in which Okita took that awful news, his friend's reaction was 180 degrees from what it had been six years before. Saitoh suspected it was because Okita was clearly suffering from god knows what sort of trauma, but he wasn't sure and there was absolutely no point in speculating.

It was done.

He'd done his duty.

Saitoh clenched his fists, resisting the urge to punch the table in frustration.

In the course of under an hour, he'd filled in as many blanks for Okita as he could, many of which had occurred during a time in his life when he'd been anything but a masterful man. Describing their alcohol fueled fight, one that occurred days before his former police partner had disappeared, had shown him to be the antithesis of a good friend. The confession that he'd lost his children, failed to protect his wife and rather than mourning her death honorably had become a degenerate alcoholic proved that he'd lost himself and his honor along the way.

Okita on the other hand had faced an unimaginable degree of loss squarely, not only now, but six years before, when he'd somehow managed to survive a loss of equal magnitude and retain his sanity.

To add insult to Okita's injury, Saitoh was incensed that he'd failed to properly retain his composure when confirming what he suspected Okita already knew, that his wife and daughter were dead. His friend had needed strength in that moment and had received anything but.

As Saitoh replayed the conversation in his mind, he found that the discussion hadn't been a complete cluster. Not quite. Okita knew that Tsutomu and Tsuyoshi were still alive, that he had two sisters who loved him (even if one of them was batshit crazy just like her little brother). Saitoh had even confided to Okita things he'd never say to another human being regarding the woman he loved and would shortly be marrying.

Then, in what had been the most Okita-like response so far, his friend had assured him that he wasn't alone and that he'd help face down the dangers that threatened his family. Saitoh wished he would have had the presence of mind to let his friend know that the same held true for him, then shoved the regret away.

(Saying it doesn't mean a damn thing…)

Saitoh heard the bathroom door open, then shut quietly and very soft footfalls come back towards the small table where he was sitting.

(…a man's true intent is shown through his actions)

Saitoh had given Okita very little good to go by. He would rectify that, starting now.

Okita sat down quietly and took the cup of coffee Saitoh had poured and drank it.

Saitoh finished his glass of water. It did nothing to quench the fire that was eating away the back of his throat but the discomfort was immaterial.

Two more cups of coffee and a half assed joke later, Okita looked up at him. He appeared calm, as if they'd been discussing the batting averages of the pending New Meiji Samurai line up.

"I finally heard you say I'm sorry," Okita smiled.

It wasn't the first time Saitoh had said such a thing, but Okita's memory was nearly gone, leaving behind emptiness where the experiences of a well lived life and a friendship over a decade in the making once existed. In the end, it didn't matter. Moving forward and not looking back did.

"Enjoy the moment, Brat" Saitoh warned, "it won't happen again."

**~FIN~**

**Notes from the Gumi Reloaded Writers**

This story takes place directly after **Release to the Wild**.

After this story, the two Mibu Wolves split up. Saitoh's story continues in **The Wolf at Work, Part II (or It's Hard to Keep a Dead Woman Down)**. Okita ends up at Genzai Independent Living Center (and has no idea the madness he's stepping into..) in the story, **The First Day**.

If you enjoyed this story, please show the love with a review! If there's something you would like to see story wise, please share!

Your friendly neighborhood fanfic writers,

MightyMightyMunson (writes Saitoh) and legalronin (writes Okita)

_Did you know that we also write other stories outside of Gumi Reloaded on ? Please check out our other stories… _


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